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The 

Oxford  Book 

Of  English  Verse 

115-0-1900 


Oxford  University  Press 
London         Edinburgh         Glasgow         .Weiv  Tork 

Toronto     Melbourne     Cape  Town     Bombay 
Humphrey  Milford  Publisher  to  the  University 


The 

Oxford  Book 

Of  English   Verse 

1x5-0-1900 

Chosen  &  Edited  by 
Arthur  Quill er-Couch 


Oxford 
At  the  Clarendon  Press 


PRINTED    IN   ENGLAND 
AT  THE  OXFORD    UNIVERSITY   PRESS 


TO 

THE    PRESIDENT 
FELLOWS    AND   SCHOLARS 

or 
TRINITY  COLLEGE  OXFORD 

A  HOUSE  OF  LEARNING 

ANCIENT    LIBERAL   HUMANE 

AND  MY  MOST  KINDLY   NURSE 


2032980 


PREFACE 

FOR  this  Anthology  I  have  tried  to  range  over  the 
whole  field  of  English  Verse  from  the  beginning,  or 
from  the  Thirteenth  Century  to  this  closing  year  of 
the  Nineteenth,  and  to  choose  the  best.  Nor  have  I  sought 
in  these  Islands  only,  but  wheresoever  the  Muse  has  followed 
the  tongue  which  among  living  tongues  she  most  delights 
to  honour.  To  bring  home  and  render  so  great  a  spoil  com- 
pendiously has  been  my  capital  difficulty.  It  is  for  the 
reader  to  judge  if  I  have  so  managed  it  as  to  serve  those 
who  already  love  poetry  and  to  implant  that  love  in  some 
young  minds  not  yet  initiated. 

My  scheme  is  simple.  I  have  arranged  the  poets  as 
nearly  as  possible  in  order  of  birth,  with  such  groupings  of 
anonymous  pieces  as  seemed  convenient.  For  convenience, 
too,  as  well  as  to  avoid  a  dispute-royal,  I  have  gathered  the 
most  of  the  Ballads  into  the  middle  of  the  Seventeenth 
Century;  where  they  fill  a  languid  interval  between  two 
winds  of  inspiration — the  Italian  dying  down  with  Milton 
and  the  French  following  at  the  heels  of  the  restored 
Royalists.  For  convenience,  again,  I  have  set  myself  certain 
rules  of  spelling.  In  the  very  earliest  poems  inflection  and 
spelling  are  structural,  and  to  modernize  is  to  destroy.  But 


PREFACE 

as  old  inflections  fade  into  modern  the  old  spelling  becomes 
less  and  less  vital,  and  has  been  brought  (not,  I  hope,  too 
abruptly)  into  line  with  that  sanctioned  by  use  and  familiar. 
To  do  this  seemed  wiser  than  to  discourage  many  readers  for 
the  sake  of  diverting  others  by  a  scent  of  antiquity  which — 
to  be  essential — should  breathe  of  something  rarer  than  an 
odd  arrangement  of  type.  But  there  are  scholars  whom  I 
cannot  expect  to  agree  with  me;  and  to  conciliate  them  I  have 
excepted  Spenser  and  Milton  from  the  rule. 

Glosses  of  archaic  and  otherwise  difficult  words  are  given 
at  the  foot  of  the  page  :  but  the  text  has  not  been  disfigured 
with  reference-marks.  And  rather  than  make  the  book 
unwieldy  I  have  eschewed  notes — reluctantly  when  some 
obscure  passage  or  allusion  seemed  to  ask  for  a  timely  word ; 
with  more  equanimity  when  the  temptation  was  to  criticize 
or  '  appreciate.'  For  the  function  of  the  anthologist  includes 
criticizing  in  silence. 

Care  has  been  taken  with  the  texts.  But  I  have  sometimes 
thought  it  consistent  with  the  aim  of  the  book  to  prefer  the 
more  beautiful  to  the  better  attested  reading.  I  have  often 
excised  weak  or  superfluous  stanzas  when  sure  that  excision 
would  improve;  and  have  not  hesitated  to  extract  a  few 
stanzas  from  a  long  poem  when  persuaded  that  they  could 
stand  alone  as  a  lyric.  The  apology  for  such  experiments 
can  only  lie  in  their  success :  but  the  risk  is  one  which,  in 
my  judgement,  the  anthologist  ought  to  take.  A  few  small 
corrections  have  been  made,  but  only  when  they  were  quite 
obvious. 


PREFACE 

The  numbers  chosen  are  either  lyrical  or  epigrammatic. 
Indeed  I  am  mistaken  if  a  single  epigram  included  fails  to 
preserve  at  least  some  faint  thrill  of  the  emotion  through 
which  it  had  to  pass  before  the  Muse's  lips  let  it  fall,  with 
however  exquisite  deliberation.  But  the  lyrical  spirit  is 
volatile  and  notoriously  hard  to  bind  with  definitions ;  and 
seems  to  grow  wilder  with  the  years.  With  the  anthologist — 
as  with  the  fisherman  who  knows  the  fish  at  the  end  of  his 
sea-line — the  gift,  if  he  have  it,  comes  by  sense,  improved 
by  practice.  The  definition,  if  he  be  clever  enough  to  frame 
one,  comes  by  after-thought.  I  don't  know  that  it  helps, 
and  am  sure  that  it  may  easily  mislead. 

Having  set  my  heart  on  choosing  the  best,  I  resolved  not 
to  be  dissuaded  by  common  objections  against  anthologies — 
that  theyrepeatone  another  until  the  proverb  Sis^T/HsraKaAa 
loses  all  application — or  perturbed  if  my  judgement  should 
often  agree  with  that  of  good  critics.  The  best  is  the  best, 
though  a  hundred  judges  have  declared  it  so  ;  nor  had  it 
been  any  feat  to  search  out  and  insert  the  second-rate  merely 
because  it  happened  to  be  recondite.  To  be  sure,  a  man 
must  come  to  such  a  task  as  mine  haunted  by  his  youth  and 
the  favourites  he  loved  in  days  when  he  had  much  enthusiasm 
but  little  reading. 

A  deeper  import 

Lurks  in  the  legend  told  my  infant  years 
Than  lies  upon  that  truth  we  live  to  learn. 

Few  of  my  contemporaries  can  erase— or  would  wish  to 
erase— the  dye  their  minds  took  from  the  late  Mr.  Palgrave's 


PREFACE 

Golden  Treasury  :  and  he  who  has  returned  to  it  again  and 
again  with  an  affection  born  of  companionship  on  many 
journeys  must  remember  not  only  what  the  Golden  Treasury 
includes,  but  the  moment  when  this  or  that  poem  appealed  to 
him,  and  even  how  it  lies  on  the  page.  To  Mr.  Bullen's 
Lyrics  from  the  Elizabethan  Song  Books  and  his  other  treasuries 
I  own  a  more  advised  debt.  Nor  am  I  free  of  obligation  to 
anthologies  even  more  recent — to  Archbishop  Trench's  House- 
hold Book  of  Poetry,  Mr.  Locker-Lampson's  Lyra  Elegan- 
tiarum,  Mr.  Miles'  Poets  and  Poetry  of  the  Century, 
Mr.  Beeching's  Paradise  of  English  Poetry,  Mr.  Henley's 
English  Lyrics,  Mrs.  Sharp's  Lyra  Celtica,  Mr.  Yeats'  Book 
of  Irish  Verse,  and  Mr.  Churton  Collins'  Treasury  of  Minor 
British  Poetry  :  though  my  rule  has  been  to  consult  these 
after  making  my  own  choice.  Yet  I  can  claim  that  the  help 
derived  from  them — though  gratefully  owned — bears  but  a 
trifling  proportion  to  the  labour,  special  and  desultory,  which 
has  gone  to  the  making  of  my  book. 

For  the  anthologist's  is  not  quite  the  dilettante  business 
for  which  it  is  too  often  and  ignorantly  derided.  I  say  this, 
and  immediately  repent ;  since  my  wish  is  that  the  reader 
should  in  his  own  pleasure  quite  forget  the  editor's  labour, 
which  too  has  been  pleasant :  that,  standing  aside,  I  may 
believe  this  book  has  made  the  Muses'  access  easier  when, 
in  the  right  hour,  they  come  to  him  to  uplift  or  to  console — 

eywye  p.fvoip.i  w  e's  Se  Ka\fvvr<ov 
Mouraio-i  crw  apfTtpaunv  tfcot/xav 


PREFACE 

My  thanks  are  here  tendered  to  those  who  have  helped  me 
with  permission  to  include  recent  poems :  to  Mr.  A.  C.  Benson, 
Mr.  Laurence  Binyon,  Mr.  Wilfrid  Blunt,  Mr.  Robert 
Bridges,  Mr.  John  Davidson,  Mr.  Austin  Dobson,  Mr. 
Aubrey  de  Vere,  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse,  Mr.  Bret  Harte, 
Mr.  W.  E.  Henley,  Mrs.  Katharine  Tynan  Hinkson, 
Mr.  W.  D.  Howells,  Dr.  Douglas  Hyde,  Mr.  Rudyard 
Kipling,  Mr.  Andrew  Lang,  Mr.  Richard  Le  Gallienne, 
Mr.  George  Meredith,  Mrs.  Meynell,  Mr.  T.  Sturge  Moore, 
Mr.  Henry  Newbolt,  Mr.  Gilbert  Parker,  Mr.  T.  W.  Rolle- 
ston,  Mr.  George  Russell  ('A.  E.'),  Mrs.  Clement  Shorter 
(Dora  Sigerson),  Mr.  Swinburne,  Mr.  Francis  Thompson, 
Dr.  Todhunter,  Mr.  William  Watson,  Mr.  Watts-Dunton, 
Mrs.  Woods,  and  Mr.  W.  B.  Yeats  ;  to  the  Earl  of  Crewe  for 
a  poem  by  the  late  Lord  Houghton ;  to  Lady  Ferguson, 
Mrs.  Allingham,  Mrs.  A.  H.  Clough,  Mrs.  Locker-Lampson, 
Mrs.  Coventry  Patmore  ;  to  the  Lady  Betty  Balfour  and  the 
Lady  Victoria  Buxton  for  poems  by  the  late  Earl  of  Lytton  and 
the  Hon.  Roden  Noel  ;  to  the  executors  of  Messrs.  Frederic 
Tennyson  (Captain  Tennyson  and  Mr.  W.  C.  A.  Ker),  Charles 
Tennyson  Turner  (Sir  Franklin  Lushington),  Edward  Fitz- 
Gerald  (Mr.  Aldis  Wright),  William  Bell  Scott  (Mrs.  Sydney 
Morse  and  Miss  Boyd  of  Penkill  Castle,  who  has  added 
to  her  kindness  by  allowing  me  to  include  an  unpublished 
'  Sonet '  by  her  sixteenth-century  ancestor,  Mark  Alexander 
Boyd),  William  Philpot  (Mr.  Hamlet  S.  Philpot),  William 
Morris  (Mr.  S.  C.  Cockerell),  William  Barnes,  and  R.  L. 
Stevenson;  to  the  Rev.  H.  C.  Beeching  for  two  poems 

xi 


PREFACE 

from  his  own  works,  and  leave  to  use  his  redaction  of 
Quia  Amore  Langueo  •  to  Messrs.  Macmillan  for  confirming 
permission  for  the  extracts  from  FitzGerald,  Christina  Rossetti, 
and  T.  E.  Brown,  and  particularly  for  allowing  me  to  insert 
the  latest  emendations  in  Lord  Tennyson's  non-copyright 
poems;  to  the  proprietors  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Browning's 
copyrights  and  to  Messrs.  Smith,  Elder  &  Co.  for  a  similar 
favour,  also  for  a  copyright  poem  by  Mrs.  Browning ;  to 
Mr.  George  Allen  for  extracts  from  Ruskin  and  the  author 
of  lonica ;  to  Messrs.  G.  Bell  &  Sons  for  poems  by  Thomas 
Ashe  ;  to  Messrs.  Chatto  &  Windus  for  poems  by  Arthur 
O'Shaughnessy  and  Dr.  George  MacDonald,  and  for  con- 
firming Mr.  Bret  Harte's  permission  ;  to  Mr.  Elkin  Mathews 
for  a  poem  by  Mr.  Bliss  Carman;  to  Mr.  John  Lane 
for  two  poems  by  William  Blighty  Rands ;  to  the  Society 
for  Promoting  Christian  Knowledge  for  two  extracts  from 
Christina  Rossetti's  Verses  ;  and  to  Mr.  Bertram  Dobell,  who 
allows  me  not  only  to  select  from  James  Thomson  but  to  use 
a  poem  of  Traherne's,  a  seventeenth-century  singer  redis- 
covered by  him.  To  mention  all  who  in  other  ways  have 
furthered  me  is  not  possible  in  this  short  Preface ;  which, 
however,  must  not  conclude  without  a  word  of  special  thanks 
to  Dr.  W.  Robertson  Nicoll  for  many  suggestions  and  some 
pains  kindly  bestowed,  and  to  Professor  F.  York  Powell,  whose 
help  and  wise  counsel  have  been  as  generously  given  as  they 
were  eagerly  sought,  adding  me  to  the  number  of  those  many 
who  have  found  his  learning  to  be  his  friends'  good  fortune. 

A.T.Q.C. 

October  itpoo 


Cuckoo  Song 

C  1250 

GUMER  is  icumen  in, 
^     Lhude  sing  cuccu! 
Groweth  sed,  and  bloweth  med, 
And  springth  the  wude  nu — 
Sing  cuccu \ 


Awe  bleteth  after  lomb, 
Lhouth  after  calve  cu ; 

Bulluc  sterteth,  bucke  verteth, 
M'.irie  sing  cuccu  ! 


Cuccu,  cuccu,   well  singes  thu,  cuccu: 

Ne  swike  thu  naver  nu ; 
Sing  cuccu,   nu,  sing  cuccu, 

Sing  cuccu,  sing  cuccu,  nu  1 


Ihnde]  loud.        awe]  ewe.         Ihouth]  loweth,        stertetL]  leaps, 
swikej  cease. 


ANONYMOUS 

2.  Alison 

c.  1300 

DYTUENE  Mershe  ant  Averil 
&     When  spray  biginneth  to  spring, 
The  lutel  foul  hath  hire  wyl 

On  hyre  lud  to  synge : 
Ich  libbe  in  love-longinge 
For  semlokest  of  alle  thynge, 
He  may  me  blisse  bringe, 

Icham  in  hire  bandoun. 
An  hendy  hap  ichabbe  y-hent, 
Ichot  from  hevene  it  is  me  sent, 
From  alle  wymmen  my  love  is  lent 

Ant  lyht  on  Alisoun. 

On  heu  hire  her  is  fayr  ynoh, 

Hire  browe  broune,  hire  eye   blake  ; 
With  lossom  chere  he  on  me  loh  ; 

With  middel  smal  ant  wel  y-make  ; 
Sole  he  me  wolle  to  hire  take 
For  to  buen  hire  owen  make, 
Long  to  lyven  ichulle  forsake 

Ant  feye  fallen  adoun. 
An  hendy  hap,  etc. 

Nihtes  when  I  wende  and  wake, 
For-thi  myn  wonges  waxeth  won ; 

on  hyre  lud]  in  her  language.  ich  libbe]  I  live.  semlokest] 
seemliest.  he]  she.  bandoun]  thraldom.  hendy]  gracious, 
y-hent]  seized,  enjoyed.  ichot]  I  wot.  lyht]  alighted, 

hire  her]  her  hair.  lossom]   lovesome.  loh]   laughed, 

bote  he]  unless  she.        make]  mate.        feye]  like  to  die.         nihtes] 
at  night.          wende]  turn.         for-thi]  on  that  account.  wonges 

waxeth  won]  cheeks  grow  wan. 


ANONYMOUS 

Levedi,  al  for  thine  sake 

Longinge  is  y-lent  me  on. 
In  world  his  non  so  wyter  mon 
That  al  hire  bounte  telle  con  ; 
Hire  swyre  is  whittore  than  the  swon. 

Ant  feyrest  may  in  toune. 
An  hendy  hap,  etc. 

Icham  for  wowyng  al  for-wake, 

Wery  so  water  in  wore  ; 
Lest  any  reve  me  my  make 
Ichabbe  y-yerned  yore. 
Betere  is  tholien  whyle  sore 
Then  mournen  evermore. 
Geynest  under  gore, 
Herkne  to  my  roun — 
An  hendy  hap,  etc. 


3.  Spring-tide 

c.  zjoo 

T   ENTEN  ys  come  with  love  to  toune, 
•*-'  With  blosmen  ant  with  briddes  roune, 

That  al  this  blisse  bryngeth ; 
Dayes-eyes  in  this  dales, 
Notes  suete  of  nyhtegales, 
Vch  foul  song  singeth  ; 

2.  levedi]  lady,  y-lent  me  on]  arrived  to  me.  so  wyter  mon]  so 
wise  a  man.  swyre]  neck.  may]  maid.  for- wake]  worn  out 
with  vigils.  so  water  in  wore]  as  water  in  a  weir.  reve]  rob. 

y-yerned  yore]  long  been  distressed.  tholien]  to  endure.  gtynest 
under  gore]  comeliest  under  woman's  apparel.  rouu]  tale,  lay. 

f.  to  toune]  in  its  turn. 

3 


ANONYMOUS 

The  threstlecoc  him  threteth  oo, 
Away  is  huere  wynter  wo, 

When  woderove  springeth; 
This  foules  singeth  ferly  fele, 
Ant  wlyteth  on  huere  winter  wele. 

That  al  the  wode  ryngeth 

The  rose  rayleth  hire  rode, 
The  leves  on  the  lyhte  wode 

Waxen  al  with  wille ; 
The  mone  mandeth  hire  bleo, 
The  lilie  is  lossom  to  seo, 

The  fenyl  ant  the  fille ; 
Wowes  this  wilde  drakes, 
Miles  murgeth  huere  makes ; 

Ase  strem  that  striketh  stille, 
Mody  meneth ;    so  doth  mo 
(Ichot  ycham  on  of  tho) 

For  loue  that  likes  ille. 

The  mone  mandeth  hire  lyht, 
So  doth  the  semly  sonne  bryht. 
When  briddes  singeth  breme ; 
Deawes  donketh  the  dounes, 
Deores  with  huere  derne  rounes 

Domes  forte  deme ; 

him  threteth  oo]  is  aye  chiding  them.       huere]  their.      woderove] 
woodruff.          ferly  fele]  marvellous  many.  wlyteth]  whistle,  or 

look.  rayleth  hire  rode]  clothes  herself  in  red.  mandeth  hire 
bleo]  sends  forth  her  light.  lossom  to  seo]  lovesome  to  see.  fille] 
thyme.  wowes]  woo.  miles]  males.  murgeth]  make  merry, 
makes]  mates.  striketh]  flows,  trickles.  mody  meneth]  the 

moody  man  makes  moan.  so  doth  mo]  so  do  many.  on  of  tho] 
one  of  them.  breme]  lustily.  deawes]dews.  donketh]  make 
dank.  deores]  dears,  lovers.  huere  derne  rounes]  their  secret 
tales.  domes  forte  deme]  for  to  give  (decide)  their  decisions. 


ANONYMOUS 

Wormes  woweth  under  cloude, 
Wymmen  waxeth  wounder  proude 

So  wel  hit  wol  hem  seme, 
Yef  me  shal  wonte  wille  of  on, 
This  wunne  weole  y  wole  forgon 

Ant  wyht  in  wode  be  fleme. 


4.  Blow,  Northern  Wind 

C.  1300 

TCHOT  a  burde  in  boure   bryht, 
*•      That  fully  semly  is  on  syht, 
Menskful  maiden  of  myht ; 

Feir  ant  fre  to  fonde; 
In  al  this  wurhliche  won 
A  burde  of  blod  ant  of  bon, 
Never  yete  y  nuste  non 
Lussomore  in  londe. 

Blou  northerne  wynd  ! 

Send  thou  me  my  suetyng ! 

Blou  northerne  wynd  1    blou,  blou,  blou ! 

With  lokkes  lefliche  ant  longe, 
With  frount  ant  face  feir  to  fonge, 
With  murthes  monie  mote  heo  monge, 
That  brid  so  breme  in  boure. 

3.  clonde]  clod.        wunne  weole]  wealth  of  joy.        y  wole  forgon] 
1  will  forgo.         wyht]  wight.         fleme]  banished. 

4.  Ichot]  I  know.  burde]  maiden.  menskful]  worshipful, 
feir]  fair.           fonde]  take,  prove.           wurhliche]  noble.  won] 
multitude.          y  nuste]  I  knew  not.          lussomore  in  londe]  lovelier 
on  earth.           suetyng]  sweetheart.           lefiiche]  lovely.           fonge] 
take  between  hands.         murthes]  mirths,  joys.         mote  heo  mongej 
may  she  mingle.        brid]  bird.        breme]  full  of  life. 

5 


ANONYMOUS 

With  lossom  eye  grete  ant  gode. 
With  browen  blysfol  under  hode, 
He  that  reste  him  on  the  Rode, 
That  leflych  lyf  honoure. 
Blou  northerne  wynd,  etc. 

Hire  lure  lumes  liht 
Ase  a  launterne  a  nyht, 
Hire  bleo  blykyeth  so  bryht, 

So  feyr  heo  is  ant  fyn. 
A  suetly  swyre  heo  hath  to  holde, 
With  armes  shuldre  ase  mon  wolde, 
Ant  fmgres  feyre  forte  folde, 

God  wolde  hue  were  myn ! 
Blou  northerne  wynd,  etc. 

Heo  is  coral  of  godnesse, 
Heo  is  ruble  of  ryhtfulnesse, 
Heo  is  cristal  of  clannesse, 

Ant  baner  of  bealte. 
Heo  is  lilie  of  largesse, 
Heo  is  parvenke  of  prouesse, 
Heo  is  solsccle  of  suetnesse, 

Ant  lady  of  lealte. 

For  hire  love  y  carke  ant  care, 
For  hire  love  y  droupne  ant  dare, 
For  hire  love  my  blisse  is  bare 
Ant  al  ich  waxe  won, 

Rode]  the  Cross.        lure]  face.        lumes]  beams.        bleo]  colour 
suetly  swyre]  darling  neck.  forte]  for  to.  hue,  heo]  she. 

clannesse]  cleanness,  purity.          parvenke]  periwinkle,          solsecle] 
sunflower.  won]  wan. 

6 


ANONYMOUS 

For  hire  love  in  slep  y  slake, 
For  hire  love  al  nyht  ich  wake, 
For  hire  love  mournynge  y  make 
More  then  eny  nion. 

Blou  northerne  wynd ! 

Send  thou  me  my  suetyng ! 

Blou  northerne  wynd  !    blou,  blou,  blou ! 


This  World's  Joy 

c.  1300 

wakeneth  al  my  care, 
Nou  this  leves  waxeth  bare; 
Ofte  I  sike  ant  mourne  sare 
When  hit  cometh  in  my  thoht 
Of  this  v/orldes  joie,  hou  hit  goth  al  to  noht 

Nou  hit  is,  and  nou  hit  nys, 

Al  so  hit  ner  nere,  ywys ; 

That  moni  mon  seith,   soth  hit  ys : 

Al  goth  bote  Codes  wille : 

Alle  we  shule  deye,  thah  us  like  ylle. 

Al  that  gren  me  graueth  grene 
Nou  hit  faleweth  albydene : 
Jesu,   help  that  hit  be  sene 

Ant  shild  us  from  helle! 

For  y  not  whider  y  shal,   ne  hou  longe  her  duelle. 

/.  this  leves]  these  leaves.  sike]  sigh.  nys]  is  not.  also  hit 
ner  nere]  as  though  it  had  never  been.  sothj  sooth  bote]  but, 
except  thah]  though.  faleweth]  fadeth.  albydene]  altogether 
y  cot  whider]  I  know  not  whither.  her  duelle]  here  dwell. 


ANONYMOUS 
6»  A  Hymn  to  the  firgin 

C.  1  OO 

OF  on  that  is  so  fayr  and  bright 
Velut  marts  Stella, 
Brighter  than  the  day  is  light, 

Parent  et  puella  : 
Ic  crie  to  the,  thou  see  to  me, 
Levedy,  preye  thi  Sone  for  me, 

Tarn  pla, 

That  ic  mote  come  to  thee 
Maria. 

Al  this  world  was  for-lore 

Eva  peccatrice, 
Tyl  our  Lord  was  y-bore 

De  tt  genetriee. 
With  ave  it  went  away 
Thuster  nyth  and  comz  the  day 

Salutis  ; 
The  welle  springeth  ut  of  the, 

Vlrtotlt. 

Levedy,  flour  of  alle  thing, 

Rosa  sine  spina, 
Thu  here  Jhesu,  hevene  king, 

Gratia  divina : 
Of  alle  thu  ber'st  the  pris, 
Levedy,  quene  of  paradys 

Electa  : 
Mayde  milde,  moder  « 

Effecta. 

on]  oae.  levedy]  lady.  thuster]  dark.  pris]  prize. 

8 


ANONYMOUS 


7.  Of  a  rose,  a  lovefy  rose, 

Of  a  rose  is  al  myn  song. 

c.  1350 
T   ESTENYT,  lordynges,  boih  elde  and  jynge, 

How  this  rose  began  to   tprynge ; 
Swych  a  rose  to  myn  lykynge 

In  al  this  word  ne  knowe  I  non. 

The  Aungil  came  fro  hevene  tour, 
To  grete  Marye  with  gret  honour, 
And  seyde  sche  xuld  here  the  flour 
That  xulde  breke  the  fyndes  bond. 

The  flour  sprong  in  heye  Bedlem, 
That  is  bothe  bryht  and  schen : 
The  rose  is  Mary  hevene  qwyn, 

Out  of  here  bosum  the  blosme   sprong. 

The  ferste  braunche  is  ful  of  myht, 
That  sprang  on  Cyrstemesse  nyht, 
The  sterre  schon  over  Bedlem  bryht 
That  is  bothe  brod  and  long. 

The  secunde  braunche  sprong  to  helle, 
The  fendys  power  doun  to  felle : 
Therein  myht  non  sowle  dwelle  ; 

Blyssid  be  the  time  the  rose  sprong  1 

The  thredde  braunche  is  good  and  swote, 
It  sprang  to  hevene  crop  and  rote, 
Therein  to  dwellyn  and  ben  our  bote; 

Every  day  it  schewit  in  prystes  hond. 

lestenyt]  listen,      word]  world,      xuld]  should.      schen]  beautiful, 
hevene  qwyn]  heaven's  queen.         bote]  salvation. 

D  9 


ANONYMOUS 

Prey  we  to  here  with  gret  honour, 
Che  that  bar  the  blyssid  flowr, 
Che  be  our  helpe  and  our  socour 

And  schyd  us  fro  the  fyndes  bond- 


ROBERT  MANNYNG  OF  BRUNNE 
8.  T  raise  of  Women 

NO  thyng  ys  to  man  so  dere 
As  wommanys  love  in  gode  manere. 
A  gode  womman  is  mannys  blys, 
There  her  love  right  and  stedfast  ys. 
There  ys  no  solas  under  hevene 
Of  alle  that  a  man  may  nevene 
That  shulde  a  man  so  moche  glew 
As  a  gode  womman  that  loveth  true. 
Ne  derer  is  none  in  Goddis  hurde 
Than  a  chaste  womman  with  lovely  worde. 


JOHN   BARBOUR 
0.  Freedom 

d.  1395 

A    |    Fredome  is  a  noble  thing! 
•**•  •     Fredome  mayse  man  to  half  liking; 
Fredome  all  solace  to  man  giffis, 
He  livis  at  ese  that  frely  livis ! 
A  noble  hart  may  haif  nane  ese, 
Na  ellys  nocht  that  may  him  plese, 

8.  nevene]  name.        glew]  gladden.       hurde]  flock.       9.  liking] 
liberty.        na  ellys  nocht]  nor  aught  else. 


JOHN  BARBOUR 

Gif  fredome  fail'th ;    for  fre  liking 
Is  yharnit  ouer  all  othir  thing. 
Na  he  that  ay  has  livit  frc 
May  nocht  knaw  well  the  properte, 
The  anger,  na  the  wretchit  doom 
That  is  couplit  to  foul  thraldome. 
But  gif  he  had  assayit  it, 
Then  all  perquer  he  suld  it  wit ; 
And  suld  think  fredome  mar  to  prise 
Than  all  the  gold  in  warld  that  is. 
Thus  contrar  thingis  evermar 
Discoweringis  of  the  totliir  are. 

GEOFFREY   CHAUCER 
10.  The  Love  Unfeigned 

1340 '-1400 
YONGE  fresshe  folkes,   he  or  she, 

In  which  that  love  up  growcth  with  your  age, 
Repeyreth  hoom  from   worldly  vanitee, 
And  of  your  herte  up-casteth  the  visage 
To  thilke  god  that  after  his  image 
Yow  made,  and  thinketh  al  nis  but  a  fayre 
This  world,  that  passeth  sone  as  floures  fayre. 

And  loveth  him,  the  which  that  right  for  !ov* 
Upon  a  cros,  our  soules  for  to  beye, 
First  starf,  and  roos,  and  sit  in  hevene  a-bove ; 
For  he  nil  falsen  no  wight,  dar  I  seye, 
That  wol  his  herte  al  hoolly  on  him  leye. 
And  sin  he  best  to  love  is,  and  most  meke, 
What  nedeth  feyned  loves  for  to  seke  ? 

9.  yharnit]  yearned  for.  perquer]  thoroughly,  by  heart. 

zo.  repeyreth]  repair  ye.          starf]  died. 


o 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

//.  Balade 

HYD,  Absolon,  thy  gilte  tresses  clere; 
Ester,  ley  thou  thy  meknesse  al  a-doun  ; 
Hyd,  Jonathas,  al  thy  frendly  manere  ; 
Penalopee,  and  Marcia  Catoun, 
Mak  of  your  wyfhod  no  comparisoun  ; 
Hyde  ye  your  beautes,   Isoude  and  Eleyne; 
My  lady  cometh,  that  al  this  may  disteyne. 

Thy  faire  body,  lat  hit  nat  appere, 

Lavyne  ;    and  thou,   Lucresse  of  Rome  toun, 

And  Polixene,  that  boghten  love  so  dere, 

And  Cleopatre,  with  al  thy  passioun, 

Hyde  ye  your  trouthe  of  love  and  your  renoun  ; 

And  thou,  Tisbe,  that  hast  of  love  swich  peyne  ; 

My  lady  cometh,  that  al  this  may  disteyne. 

Herro,  Dido,   Laudomia,  alle  y-fere, 

And  Phyllis,  hanging  for  thy  Demophoun, 

And  Canace,  espyed  by  thy  chere, 

Ysiphile,  betraysed  with  Jasoun, 

Maketh  of  your  trouthe  neyther  boost  ne  soun  ; 

Nor  Ypermistre  or  Adriane,  ye  tweyne  ; 

My  lady  cometh,  that  al  this  may  disteyne. 


12.  ^Merciles  Beaute 

A  TRIPLE  ROUNDEL 

I.    CAPTIVITY 

VOUR  eyen  two  wol  slee  me  sodenly, 

I  may  the  beaute  of  hem  not  sustene, 
So  woundeth  hit  through-out  my  herte  kene. 
n.  disteyne]  bedim.  y-fere]  together. 


GEOFFREY   CHAUCER 

And  but  your  word  wol  Helen  hastily 
My  hertes  wounde,  whyl  that  hit  is  grene, 
Your  eyen  two  wol  slee  me  sodenly, 
I  may  the  beaute  of  hem  not  sustene. 

Upon  my  trouthe  I  sey  yow  feithfully, 
That  ye  ben  of  my  lyf  and  deeth  the  quene ; 
For  with  my  deeth  the  trouthe  shal  be  sene. 
Your  eyen  two  wol  slee  me  sodenly, 
I  may  the  beaute  of  hem  not  sustene, 
So  woundeth  hit  through-out  my  herte  Jrjne. 

2.    REJECTION. 

So  hath  your  beaute  fro  your  herte  chaced 
Pitee,  that  me  ne  availeth  not  to  pleyne ; 
For  Daunger  halt  your  mercy  in  his  cheyne 

Giltles  my  deeth  thus  han  ye  me  purchaced ; 

I  sey  yow  sooth,  me  nedeth  not  to  feyne ; 
So  hath  your  beaute  fro  your  herte  chaced 
Pitee,  that  me  ne  availeth  not  to  pleyne. 

Alias !    that  nature  hath  in  yow  compassed 
So  greet  beaute,  that  no  man  may  atteyne 
To  mercy,  though  he  sterve  for  the  peyne. 
So  hath  your  beaute  fro  your  herte  chaced 
Pitee,  that  me  ne  availeth  not  to  pleyne ; 
For  Daunger  halt  your  mercy  in  his  cheyne. 

3-    ESCAPE. 

Sin  I  fro  Love  escaped  am  so  fat, 

I  never  thenk  to  ben  in  his  prison  lene ; 

Sin  1  am  free,  I  counte  him  not  a  bene. 

halt]  holdeth. 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

He  may  answere,  and  seye  this  or  that} 
I  do  no  fors,   I  speke  right  as  I  mene. 
Sin  I  fro  Love  escaped  am  so  fat, 
I  never  thenk  to  ben  in  his  prison  lene. 

Love  hath  my  name  y-strike  out  of  his  sclat, 
And  he  is  strike  out  of  my  bokes  clene 
For  ever-mo  ;    ther  is  non  other  mene. 
Sin  I  fro  Love  escaped  am  so  fat, 
I  never  thenk  to  ben  in  his  prison  lene ; 
Sin  I  am  free,   I  counte  him  not  a  bene. 


THOMAS    HOCCLEVE 
13.  Lament  for  Chaucer 

A  LLAS!    my  worthy  maister  honorable, 
•**•     This  londes  verray  tresour  and  richesse ! 
Dethe  by  thy  dethe  hath  harm  irreparable 
Unto  us  done :    hir  vengeable  duresse 
Despoiled  hath  this  lond  of  the  swctnesse 
Of  rethoryk  ;    for  unto  Tullius 
Was  never  man  so  like  amonges  us. 

Also  who  was  heyr  in  philosofye 

To  Aristotle  in  our  tunge  but  thou  ? 

The  steppes  of  Virgile  in  poesye 

Thou  folvvedest  eke,  men  wote  wel  ynow. 

That  combre-worlde  that  my  maister  slow 

Wolde  1  slayn  were  1— Dethe  was  to  hastyf 
To  renne  on  thee  and  reve  thee  thy  lyf  .   . 

is.  sclat]  slate.  /,.  }1Cyr]  heir.  combre-worlde] 

encumberer  of  earth.  slow]  slew. 


THOMAS  HOCCLEVE 

She  might  han  tarried  hir  vengeance  a  whyle 
Til  that  some  man  had  egal  to  thee  be; 
Nay,  let  be  that !    she  knew  wel  that  this  yle 
May  never  man  bring  forthe  like  to  thee, 
And  her  office  nedes  do  mote  she : 
God  bade  hir  do  so,   I  truste  for  the  beste ; 
O  maister,  maister,   God  thy  soule  restel 

JOHN  LYDGATE 

74.  fox  ultima  Crucis 

13707-1447 

"PARY  no  longer;    toward  thyn  heritage 

A       Haste  on  thy  way,  and  be  of  right  good  chere. 

Go  ech  day  onward  on  thy  pilgrimage ; 

Thynk  how  short  time  thou  shall  abyde  here. 

Thy  place  is  bigg'd  above  the  sterres  clere, 

None  eithly  paleys  wrought  in  so  statly  wyse. 

Come  on,   my  frend,   my  brother  most  entere  1 

For  thee  1  offred  my  blood  in  sacryfice. 

KING  JAMES  I  OF  SCOTLAND 
/r.  Spring:  Sons:  of  the  Birds 

r       6  6    J  1394-1437 

WfORSCHIPPE  ye  that  loveris  bene  this  May, 

For  of  your  blisse  the   Kalendis  are  begonne. 
And  sing  with  us,  Away,  Winter,  away ! 

Cum,   Somer,   cum,  the  suete  sesoun  and  sonne ! 
Awake  for  schame !    that  have  your  hevynnis  wonne, 
And  amorously  lift  up  your  hedis  all, 
Thank  Lufe  that  list  you  to  his  merci  call ! 

*4-  bigg'd]  built.  paleys]  palace.  if.  suete]  sweet 

Lufe]  Love 


ROBERT  HENRYSON 
Robin  and  <3 


1425-1500 

ROBIN  sat  on  gude  green  hill, 
Kepand  a  flock  of  fe  : 
Mirry  Makyn  said  him  till 

'  Robin,  thou  rew  on  me  : 
I  haif  thee  luvit,  loud  and  still, 

Thir  yeiris  twa  or  thre  ; 
My  dule  in  dern  hot  gif  thou  dill, 
Doutless  but  dreid  I  de.' 

Robin  answerit  'By  the  Rude 

Na  thing  of  luve  I  knaw, 
But  keipis  my  sheip  undir  yon  wud  : 

Lo,  quhair  they  raik  on  raw. 
Quhat  has  marrit  thee  in  thy  mude 

Makyn  to  me  thou  shaw  ; 
Or  quhat  is  luve,  or  to  be  lude? 

Fain  wad  I  leir  that  law.' 

*At  luvis  lair  gif  thou  will  leir 

Tak  thair  ane  A  B  C  ; 
Be  heynd,  courtass,  and  fair  of  feir, 

Wyse,  hardy,  and  free: 
So  that  no  danger  do  thee  deir 

Quhat  dule  in  dern  thou  dre  ; 
Preiss  thee  with  pain  at  all  poweir 

Be  patient  and  previe.' 

kepand]  keeping.  fe]  sheep,  cattle.  him  till]  to  him. 

dule  in  dern]  sorrow  in  secret.        dill]  soothe.        but  dreid]  without 
dread,  i.  e.  there  is  no  fear  or  doubt.  raik  on  raw]  lange  in 

row.        lude]  loved.        leir]  learn.         lair]  lore.        heynd]  gentle. 
feir]  demeanour.       deir]  daunt.       dre]  endure.       preiss]  endeavour. 
16 


ROBERT  HENRYSON 

Robin  answerit  hir  agane, 

'I  wat  not  quhat  is  lufe; 
But  I   haif  mervel  in  certaine 

Quhat  makis  thee  this  wanmfe: 
The  weddir  is  fair,  and  I  am  fain; 

My  sheep  gois  haill  aboif; 
And  we  wald  pley  us  in  this  plane, 

They  wald  us  baith  reproif.' 

4  Robin,   tak  tent  unto  my  tale, 

And  wirk  all  as  I  reid, 
And  thou  sail  haif  my  heart  all  haill, 

Eik  and  my  maiden-heid : 
Sen  God  sendis  bute  for  baill, 

And  for  murnyng  remeid, 
In  dern  with  thee  bot  gif  I  dale 

Dowtles  I  am  bot  deid.' 

'Makyn,  to-morn  this  ilka  tyde 

And  ye  will  meit  me  heir, 
Peraventure  my  sheip  may  gang  besyde 

Quhyle  we  haif  liggit  full  neir ; 
But  mawgre  haif  I,   and  I  byde, 

Fra  they  begin  to  steir; 
Quhat  lyis  on  heart  I  will  nocht  hyd ; 

Makyn,  then  mak  gude  cheir.' 

*  Robin,  thou  reivis  me  roifF  and  rest ; 

I  luve  bot  thee  allane.' 

*  Makyn,  adieu !     the  sone  gois  west, 

The  day  is  neir-hand  gane.' 

wanrnfe]  unrest  haill]  healthy,  whole.  aboif]  above,  up 

yonder.          and]  an,  if.  tak  tent]  give  heed.  bute  for  baill] 

remedy  for  hurt.  bot  gif]  but  if,  unless.  mawgre]  ill-will 

(of  his  master).  reivis]  robbest.  roiff]  quiet. 


ROBERT  HENRYSON 

*  Robin,  in  dule  I  am  so  drest 

That  luve  will  be  my  bane.' 
'Gae  luve,   Makyne,  quhair-evir  thow  list, 

For  lemman  I  luve  nane.' 

'  Robin,  I  stand  in  sic  a  styll, 

I  sicht  and  that  full  sair.' 
'  Makyn,  I  haif  been  here  this  quhyle; 

At  hame  God  gif  I  weir.' 
'My  huny,   Robin,  talk  ane  quhyll 

Gif  thow  will  do  na  main' 
'Makyn,   sum  uthir  man  begyle, 

For  hamewart  I  will  fair.' 

Robin  on  his  wayis  went 

As  light  as  leif  of  tre ; 
Makyn  murnit  in  hir  intent, 

And  trowd  him  nevir  to  se. 
Robin  brayd  attour  the  bent: 

Then  Makyn  cryit  on  hie, 
'Now  may  thow  sing,  for  I  am  schent! 

Quhat  alis  lufe  at  me?' 

Makyn  went  hame  withowttin  fail, 

Full  wery  eftir  cowth  weip; 
Then  Robin  in  a  ful  fair  daill 

Assemblit  all  his  scheip. 
Be  that  sum  part  of  Makynis  aill 

Out-throw  his  hairt  cowd  creip; 
He  fallowit  hir  fast  thair  till  assaill, 

And  till  her  tuke  gude  keip. 

drest]  beset.  lemman]  mistress.  sicht]  sigh.  in  hir 

Intent]  m  her  inward  thought.  brayd]  strode.  bentl  coarse 

fhaT         rn?t]  deStr°}'ed-        alis]  ails>         te  thatl  b*  the  Um< 
that  till]  to.  tuke  keip]  paid  attention. 

if 


ROBERT  HENRYSON 

'Abyd,  abyd,  thow  fair  Makyne, 

A  word  for  ony  thing ; 
For  all  my  luve,  it  sail  be  thyne, 

Withowttin  departing. 
All  haill  thy  hairt  for  till  haif  myne 

Is  all  my  cuvating ; 
My  scheip  to-morn,  quhyle  houris  nyne, 

Will  neid  of  no  keping.' 

'  Robin,  thow  hes  hard  soung  and  say, 

In  gestis  and  storeis  auld, 
The  man  that  will  nocht  quhen  he  may 

Sail  haif  nocht  quhen  he  wald. 
I  pray  to  Jesu  every  day, 

Mot  eik  thair  cairis  cauld 
That  first  preissis  with  thee  to  play 

Be  firth,   forrest,   or  fauld.' 

4  Makyn,  the  nicht  is  soft  and  dry, 

The  weddir  is  warme  and  fair, 
And  the  grene  woid  rycht  neir  us  by 

To  walk  attour  all  quhair: 
Thair  ma  na  janglour  us  espy, 

That  is  to  lufe  contrair ; 
Thairin,   Makyne,  baith  ye  and  I, 

Unsene  we  ma  repair.' 

4  Robin,  that  warld  is  all  away, 
And  quyt  brocht  till  ane  end : 

And  nevir  agane  thereto,  perfay, 
Sail  it  be  as  thow  wend ; 


hard]  heard.  gestis]  romances.  mot  eik]  may  add  to 

be]  by.         janglour]  talebearer.  wend]  weened. 


ROBERT  HENRYSON 

For  of  my  pane  thow  maid  it  play ; 

And  all  in  vane  I  spend: 
As  thow  hes  done,  sa  sail  I  say, 

"Murne  on;    I  think  to  mend.'" 

'  Makyn,  the  howp  of  all  my  heill, 

My  hairt  on  thee  is  sett ; 
And  evirmair  to  thee  be  leill 

Quhill  I  may  leif  but  lett ; 
Never  to  faill  as  utheris  feill, 

Quhat  grace  that  evir  I  gett.' 
'  Robin,  with  thee  I  will  nocht  deill ; 

Adieu  1    for  thus  we  mett.' 

Makyn  went  han  e  blyth  anneuche 

Attour  the  hoktis  hair ; 
Robin  murnit,  and  Makyn  leuche; 

Scho  sang,  he  sichit  sair : 
And  so  left  him  baith  wo  and  wreuch, 

In  dolour  and  in  cair, 
Kepand  his  hird  under  a  huche 

Amangis  the  holds  hair. 


17.  The  Bludy  Serb 

T^HIS  hinder  yeir  I  hard  be  tald 

Thair  was  a  worthy  King  ; 
Dukis,   Erlis  and  Barronis  bald, 
He  had  at  his  bidding. 

16.  howp]  hope.  but  lett]  without  hindrance.  anneuche] 

enough.  holds  hair]  grey  woodlands.  leuche]  laughed, 

wreuch]  peevish.  huche]  heuch,  cliff. 

77.  hinder  yeir]  last  year. 


ROBERT  HENRYSON 

The  Lord  was  ancean  and  aid, 

And  sexty  yeiris  cowth  ring ; 
He  had  a  dochter  fair  to  fald, 

A  lusty  Lady  ying. 

Off  all  fairheid  scho  bur  the  flour, 

And  eik  hir   faderis  air; 
Off  lusty  laitis  and  he  honour, 

Meik,  hot  and  debonair : 
Scho  wynnit  in  a  bigly  bour, 

On  fold  wes  nane  so  fair, 
Princis  luvit  hir  paramour 

In  cuntreis  our  allquhair. 

Thair  dwelt  a  lyt  besyde  the   King 

A  foull  Gyand  of  ane; 
Stollin  he  has  the  Lady  ying, 

Away  with  hir  is  gane, 
And  kest  her  in  his  dungering 

Quhair  licht  scho  micht  se  nane ; 
Hungir  and  cauld  and  grit  thristing 

Scho  fand  into  hir  waine. 

He  wes  the  laithliest  on  to  luk 
That  on  the  grund  mycht  gang : 

His  nailis  wes  lyk  ane  hellis  cruk, 
Thairwith  fyve  quarteris  lang  ; 

ring]  reign.  fald]  enfold.  ying]  young.  fairheid]  beanty. 
air]  heir.  laitis]  manners.  scho  wynnit]  she  dwelt.  bigly] 
well-built.  fold]  earth.  paramour]  lovingly.  our  allquhair]  all 
the  world  over.  a  lyt  besyde]  a  little,  (i.e.  close)  beside.  of  ane] 
as  any.  kest]  cast.  dungering]  dungeon.  into  hir  waine]  in 
her  lodging.  hellis  cruk]  hell-claw. 


ROBERT  HENRYSON 

Thair  wes  nane  that  he  ouituk, 

In  rycht  or  yit  in  wrang, 
Bot  all  in  schondir  he  thame  schuk, 

The  Gyand  wes  so  strang. 

He  held  the  Lady  day  and  nycht 

Within  his  deep  dungeoun, 
He  wald  nocht  gif  of  hir  a  sicht 

For  gold  nor  yit  ransoun — 
Bot  gif  the  King  mycht  get  a  knycht, 

To  fecht  with  his  persoun, 
To  fecht  with  him  beth  day  and  nycht, 

Quhill  ane  wer  dungin  doun. 

The  King  gait  seik  baith  fer  and  neir, 

Beth  be  se  and  land, 
Off  ony  knycht  gif  he  mycht  heir 

Wald  fecht  with  that  Gyand: 
A  worthy  Prince,  that  had  no  peir, 

Hes  tane  the  deid  on  hand 
For  the  luve  of  the  Lady  cleir, 

And  held  full  trew  cunnand. 

That  Prince  come  prowdly  to  the  toun 

Of  that  Gyand  to  heir, 
And  fawcht  with  him,  his  awin  persoun, 

And  tuke  him  presoneir, 
And  kest  him  in  his  awin  dungeoun 

Allane  withouten  feir, 
With  hungir,  cauld,  and  confusioun, 

As  full  weill  worthy  weir. 

quhill]  until.        dungin  doun]  beaten  down.        his  awin  persoun] 
himself.        withouten  feir]  without  companion. 


ROBERT  HENRYSON 

Syne  brak  the  hour,  had  hame  the  biicht 

Unto  her  fadir  he. 
Sa  evill  wondit  wes  the  Knycht 

That  he  behuvit   to  de ; 
Unlusam  was  his  likame  dicht, 

His  sark  was  all  bludy ; 
In  all  the  world  was  thair  a  wicht, 

So  peteouss  for  to  se  ? 

The  Lady  murnyt  and  maid  grit  mane, 

With  all  her  mekill  mycht — 
'  I  luvit  nevir  lufe  bot  ane, 

That  dulfully  now  is  dicht; 
God  sen  my  lyfe  were  fra  me  tane 

Or  I  had  seen  yone  sicht, 
Or  ellis  in  begging  evir  to  gane 

Furth  with  yone  curtass  knycht.' 

He  said  '  Fair  lady,   now  mone  I 

De  trestly  ye  me  trow, 
Take  ye  my  serk  that  is  bludy 

And  hing  it  forrow  yow, 
First  think  on  it  and  syne  on  me 

Quhen  men   cumis  yow  to  wow.' 
The  Lady  said  '  Be  Mary  fie, 

Thaiito  I   mak  a  vow.' 

Quhen  that  scho  lukit  to  the  sark 

Scho  thocht  on  the  persoun, 
And  prayit  for  him  with  all  hir  hart 

That  lowsit   hir  of  bandoun, 

the  bricht]  the  fair  one.  likame]  body.  lowsit  fair  of 

bandoun]  loosed  her  from  thraldom. 


ROBERT  HENRYSON 

Quhair  scho  wes  wont  to  sit  full  merk 

Into  that  deip  dungeoun ; 
And  evir  quhill  scho  wes  in  quert, 

That  wess  hir  a  lessoun. 

Sa  weill  the  Lady  luvit  the  Knycht 

That  no  man  wald  scho  tak  : 
Sa  suld  we  do  our  God  of  micht 

That  did  all  for  us  mak ; 
Quhilk  fullily  to  deid  was  dicht, 

For  sinfull  manis  sak, 
Sa  suld  we  do  beth  day  and  nycht, 

With  prayaris  to  him  mak. 

This  King  is  lyk  the  Trinite, 

Baith  in  hevin  and  heir ; 
The  manis  saule  to  the  Lady, 

The  Gyand  to  Lucefeir, 
The   Knycht  to  Chryst,   that  deit  on  tre 

And  coft  our  synnis  deir; 
The  pit  to  Hele  with  panis  fell, 

The  Syn  to  the  wo  weir. 

The  Lady  was  wowd,  but  scho  said  nay 

With  men  that  wald  hir  wed ; 
Sa  suld  we  wryth  all  sin  away 

That  in  our  breist  is  bred. 
I  pray  to  Jesu  Chryst  verray, 

For  ws  his  blud  that  bled, 
To  be  our  help  on  domisday 

Quhair  lawis  ar  straitly  led. 

quert]  prison.         coft]  bought.        straitly  led]  strictly  carried  oot 


ROBERT  HENRYSON 

The  saule  is  Godis  dochtir  deir, 

And  eik  his  handewerk, 
That  was  betray  it  with   Lucefeir, 

Quha  sittis  in  hell  full  merk: 
Borrowit  with  Chrystis  angell   deir, 

Hend  men,  will  ye  nocht  herk  ? 
And  for  his  lufe  that  bocht  us  deir 

Think  on  the  BLUDY  SERK! 


WILLIAM   DUNBAR 

18.  To  a  Lafy  ,465- .5»J 

CWEET  rois  of  vertew  and  of  gentilness, 
^     Delytsum  lily  of  everie  lustynes, 

Richest  in  bontie  and  in  bewtie  clear, 
And  everie  vertew  that  is  wenit  dear. 
Except  onlie  that  ye  are  mercyless. 

Into  your  garth  this  day  I  did  persew; 

There  saw  I  fiowris  that  fresche  were  of  hew; 

Baith  quhyte  and  reid  most  lusty  were  to  seyne, 
And  halesome  herbis  upon  stalkis  greene; 

Yet  leaf  nor  flowr  find  could  I  nane  of  rew. 

I  doubt  that  Merche,   with  his  cauld  blastis  keyne, 
Has  slain  this  gentil  herb,   that  I  of  mene; 

Quhois  piteous  death  dois  to  my  heart  sic  paine 
That  I  would  make  to  plant  his  root  againe, — 
So  confortand  his  levis  unto  me  bene. 

77.  hend]  gentle.  18.  rois]  rose.         wenit]  weened,  esteemed, 

garth]  garden-close.  to  seyne]  to  see.  that  I  of  mene] 

that  I  complain  of,  mourn  for. 


WILLIAM   DUNBAR 
/p.       In  Honour  of  the  City  of  London 

T   ONDON,  thou  art  of  townes  A  per  se. 
Soveraign  of  cities,  seemliest  in  sight, 
Of  high  renoun,  riches  and  royaltie ; 

Of  lordis,  barons,  and  many  a  goodly  knyght ; 

Of  most  delectable  lusty  ladies  bright; 
Of  famous  prelatis,  in  habitis  clerical! ; 

Of  merchauntis  full  of  substaunce  and  of  myght: 
London,  thou  art  the  flour  of  Cities  all. 

Gladdith  anon,  thou  lusty  Troy  novaunt, 

Citie  that  some  tyme  cleped  was  New  Troy  ; 

In  all  the  erth,  imperiall  as  thou  slant, 

Pryncesse  of  townes,  of  pleasure  and  of  joy, 
A  richer  restith  under  no  Christen  roy ; 

For  manly  power,  with  craftis  naturall, 

Fourmeth  none  fairer  sith  the  flode  of  Noy: 

London,  thou  art  the  flour  of  Cities  all. 

Gemme  of  all  joy,  jaspre  of  jocunditie, 

Most  myghty  carbuncle  of  vertue  and  valour; 
Strong  Troy  h  vigour  and  in  strenuytie ; 

Of  royall  cities  rose  and  geraflour; 

Empress  of  townes,  exalt  in  honour ; 
In  beawtie  bcryng  the  crone  imperiall ; 

Swete  paradise  precelling  in  pleasure ; 
London,  thou  art  the  flour  of  Cities  all. 

Above  all  ryvers  thy  Ryver  hath  renowne, 

Whose  beryall  stremys,  pleasaunt  and  preclare, 

Under  thy  lusty  wallys  renneth  down, 

Where  many  a  swan  doth  swymme  with  wyngis  fair; 

gladdith]  rejoice.  Troy  novaunt]  Troja  nova  or  Trinovantum. 

fourmeth]  appeareth.  geraflour]  gillyflower. 


WILLIAM   DUNBAR 

Where  many  a  barge  doth  saile  and  row  with  are ; 
Where  many  a  ship  doth  rest  with  top-royall. 

O,  towne  of  townes !     patrone  and  not  compare, 
London,  thou  art  the  flour  of  Cities  all. 

Upon  thy  lusty  Brigge  of  pylers  white 

Been  merchauntis  full  royall  to  behold ; 
Upon  thy  stretis  go'th  many  a  semely  knyght 

In  velvet  gownes  and  in  cheynes  of  gold. 

By  Julyus  Cesar  thy  Tour  founded  of  old 
May  be  the  hous  of  Mars  victoryall, 

Whose  artillary  with  tonge  may  not  be  told : 
London,  thou  art  the  flour  of  Cities  all. 

Strong  be  thy  wallis  that  about  the  standis ; 

Wise  be  the  people  that  within  the  dwellis ; 
Fresh  is  thy  ryver  with  his  lusty  strandis ; 

Blith  be  thy  chirches,  wele  sownyng  be  thy  bellis ; 

Rich  be  thy  merchauntis  in  substaunce  that  excellis ; 
Fair  be  their  wives,   right  lovesom,   white  and  small ; 

Clere  be  thy  virgyns,  lusty  under  kellis : 
London,  thou  art  the  flour  of  Cities  all. 

Thy  famous  Maire,  by  pryncely  governatince, 

With  sword  of  justice  thee  ruleth  prudently. 
No  Lord  of  Parys,   Venyce,  or  Floraunce 

In  dignitye  or  honour  go'th  to  hym  nigh. 

He  is  exempler,  loode-ster,   and  guye ; 
Principall  patrone  and  rose  oiygynalle, 

Above  all  Maires  as  maister  most  worthy: 
London,  thou  art  the  flour  of  Cities  all. 

'ft  are]  oars.  small]  slender.  kellis]  hoods,  head-dresses, 

guyc]  guide. 


WILLIAM  DUNBAR 
20.          On  the  Nativity  of  Christ 

1DORATE  coeli  desuper! 
•*•  »•     Hevins,  distil  your  balmy  schouris ! 
For  now  is  risen  the  bricht  day-ster, 
Fro  the  rose  Mary,  flour  of  flouris : 
The  cleir  Sone,  quhom  no  cloud  devouris, 
Surmounting  Phebus  in  the  Est, 
Is  cumin  of  his  hevinly  touris :  — 
Et  nob'ts  Piter  natus  est. 

Archangellis,  angellis  and  dompnationis, 

Tronis,  potestatis  and  marteiris  seir, 
And  all  ye  hevinly  operationis, 

Ster,  planeit,   firmament,  and  spheir, 

Fire,  erd,  air  and  water  cleir, 
To  Him  gife  loving,  most  and  lest, 

That  come  in  to  so  meik  maneir; 
Et  nobis   Puer  natus  est. 

Synnaris  be  glad,  and  penance  do, 
And  thank  your  Maker  hairtfully ; 

For  he  that  ye  micht  nocht  come  to 
To  you  is  cumin  full  humbly 
Your  soulis  with  his  blood  to  buy 

And  loose  you  of  the  fiendis  arrest — 
And  only  of  his  own  mercy; 
Pro  nobis  Puer  natus  est. 

All  clergy  do  to  him  inclyne, 

And  bow  unto  that  bairn  benyng, 
And  do  your  observance  divyne 

To  him  that  is  of  kingis  King: 

scbonris]  showers.  cumin]  come,  entered.  seir]  various. 

ed]  earth,          lest]  least.          synnaris]  sinners  benyng]  benign. 

28 


WILLIAM   DUNBAR 

Encense  his  altar,  read  and  sing 
In  holy  kirk,  with  mind  degest, 
Him  honouring  attour  all  thing 
Qui  nobis  Puer  natus  est. 

Celestial  foulis  in  the  air, 

Sing  with  your  nottis  upon  hicht, 
In  firthis  and  in  forrestis  fair 

Be  myrthful  now  at  all  your  mycht; 

For  passit  is  your  dully  nicht, 
Aurora  has  the  cloudis  perst, 

The  Sone  is  risen  with  glaidsum  licht, 
Et  nobis  Puer  natus  est. 

Now  spring  up  flouris  fra  the  rule. 

Revert  you  upward  naturaly, 
In  honour  of  the  blissit  frute 

That  raiss  up  fro  the  rose  Mary; 

Lay  out  your  levis  lustily, 
Fro  deid  take  life  now  at  the  lest 

In  wirschip  of  that  Prince  worthy 
Qui  nobis  Puer  natus  est. 

Sing,  hevin  imperial,  most  of  hicht  I 

Regions  of  air  mak  armony ! 
All  fish  in  flud  and  fowl  of  flicht 

Be  mirthful  and  mak  melody ! 

All  Gloria  in  excelsis  cry ! 
Heaven,  erd,  se,  man,  bird  and  best, — 

He  that  is  crownit  abone  the  sky 
Pro  nobis   Puer  natus  est ! 

attonr]  over,  above.  perst]  pierced.  raiss] 

best]  beast. 


WILLIAM  DUNBAR 
21,  Lament  for  the  Makers 

T   THAT  in  heill  was  and  gladness 
•*•    Am  trublit  now  with  great  sickness 
And  feblit  with  infirmitie : — 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Our  plesance  here  is  all  vain  glory, 
This  fals  world  is  but  transitory, 
The  flesh  is  bruckle,  the  Fcynd  is  slee :  -— 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

The  state  of  man  does  change  and  vary, 
Now  sound,   now  sick,   now  blyth,   now  =ary, 
Now  dansand  mirry,   now  like  to  die : — 
Timor  Mortis   conturbat  me. 

No  state  in   Erd  here  standis  sicker; 
As  with  the  wynd  wavis  the  wicker 
So  wannis  this  world's  vanitie : — 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Unto  the  Death  gois  all   Estati?, 
Princis,   Prelattis,  and  Potestatis, 
Baith  rich  and  poor  of  all  degree:  — 
Timor   Mortis  conturbat  me. 

He  takis  the  knichtis  in  to  the  field 
Enarmit  under  helm  and  scheild  ; 
Victor  he  is  at  all  mellie : — 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

heill]  health.        brnckle]  brittle,  feeble,        slee]  sly.        dansacd] 
dancing.          sicker]  sure.  wicker]  willow.  wamns]  waaes! 

mellie]  mellay. 


WILLIAM  DUNBAR 

That  strong  unmerciful  tyrand 
Takis,  on  the  motheris  breast  sowkand, 
The  babe  full  of  benignitie:  — 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

He  takis  the  campion  in  the  stour, 
The  captain  closit  in  the  tour, 
The  lady  in  bour  full  of  bewtie : — 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

He  spairis  no  lord  for  his  piscence, 
Na  clerk  for  his  intelligence; 
His  awful  straik  may  no  man  flee: — 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Art-magicianis  and  astrologis, 
Rethoris,  logicianis,  and  theologis, 
Them  helpis  no  conclusionis  slee : — 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

In  medecine  the  most  practicianis, 
Leechis,  surrigianis  and  physicianis, 
Themself  from  Death  may  nocht  supplee:  — 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

I  see  that  makaris  amang  the  lave 
Playis  here  their  padyanis,  syne  gois  to  grave ; 
Sparit  is  nocht  their  facultie : — 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

He  has  done  petuously  devour 
The  noble  Chaucer,  of  makaris  flour, 
The  Monk  of  Bury,  and  Gower,  all  three:— 
Timor   Mortis  conturbat  me. 

sowkand]  sucking.  campion]  champion.  stour]  fight. 

piscence]  puissance.         straik]  stroke.        snpplee]  save.         makaris] 
poets.        the  lave]  the  leave,  the  rest         padyanis]  pageants. 

31 


WILLIAM  DUNBAR 

The  good  Sir  Hew  of  Eglintoun, 
Ettrick,  Heriot,  and  Wintoun, 
He  has  tane  out  of  this  cuntrie: — 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

That  scorpion  fell  has  done  in  feck 
Maister  John  Clerk,  and  James  Afflek, 
Fra  ballat-making  and  tragedie: — 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Holland  and  Barbour  he  has  berevit; 
Alas!    that  he  not  with  us  levit 
Sir  Mungo  Lockart  of  the  Lee : — 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Clerk  of  Tranent  eke  he  has  tane, 
That  made  the  aventeris  of  Gawaine; 
Sir  Gilbert  Hay  endit  has  he: — 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

He  has  Blind  Harry  and  Sandy  Traill 
Slain  with  his  schour  of  mortal  hail, 
Quhilk  Patrick  Johnstoun  might  nocht  flee: — 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

He  has  reft  Mersar  his  endite 
That  did  in  luve  so  lively  write, 
So  short,  so  quick,  of  sentence  hie:-— 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

He  has  tane  Rowll  of  Aberdene, 
And  gentill  Rowll  of  Corstorphine ; 
Two  better  fallowis  did  no  man  see : — 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

aventeris]  adventures.  schour]  shower.  endite]  inditing, 

fallowis]  fellows. 


WILLIAM   DUNBAR 

In  Dunfermline  he  has  tane  Broun 
With  Maister  Robert  Henrysoun ; 
Sir  John  the  Ross  enbrasit  has  he: — 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

And  he  has  now  tane,  last  of  a, 
Good  gentil  Stobo  and  Quintin  Shaw, 
Of  quhom  all  wichtis  hes  pitie: — 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Good  Maister  Walter  Kennedy 
In  point  of  Dedth  lies  verily; 
Great  ruth  it  were  that  so  suld  be: — 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Sen  he  has  all  my  brothers  tane, 
He  will  nocht  let  me  live  alane; 
Of  force  I  mon  his  next  prey  be:  — 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 

Since  for  the  Death  remeid  is  none, 
Best  is  that  we  for  Death  dispone 
After  our  death  that  live  may  we : — 
Timor  Mortis  conturbat  me. 


ANONYMOUS 
22  May  in  the  Green-Wood 

I5tb  Cent. 

T  N  somer  when  the  shawes  be  sheyne, 
*•     And  leves  be  large  and  long, 
Hit  is  full  merry  in  feyre  foreste 
To  here  the  foulys  song. 

21.  wichtis]  wights,  persons.  mon]  must.  dispone]  maka 

disposition.  aa.  sheyne]  bright. 

C 


ANONYMOUS 

To  se  the  dere  draw  to  the  dale 

And  leve  the  hilles  hee, 
And  shadow  him  in  the  leves  grene 

Under  the  green-wode  tree. 

Hit  befell  on  Whitsontide 

Early  in  a  May  mornyng, 
The  Sonne  up  faire  can  shyne, 

And  the  briddis  mery  can  syng. 

'This  is  a  mery  mornyng,'  said  Litulle  Johne 

'  Be  Hym  that  dyed  on  tre ; 
A  more  mery  man  than  I  arn  one 

Lyves  not  in  Christiante. 

;Pluk  up  thi  hert,  my  dere  mayster,' 

Litulle  Johne  can  say, 
•And  thynk  hit  is  a  fulle  fayre  tyme 

in  a  mornynge  of  May.' 


2j.  Carol 

T   SING  of  a  maiden 

That  is  makeles; 
King  of  all  kings 

To  her  son  she  ches. 

He  came  al  so  still 
There  his  mother  was, 

As  dew  in  April 

That  falleth  on  the  grass. 

23.  makeles]  matchless.  ci.es]  chose. 


ANONYMOUS 

He  came  al  so  still 

To  his  mother's  hour, 
As  dew  in  April 

That  falleth  on  the  flour. 

He  came  al  so  still 

There  his  mother  lay, 
As  dew  in  April 

That  falleth  on  the  spray. 

Mother  and  maiden 

Was  never  none  but  she; 
Well  may  such  a  lady 

Goddes  mother  be. 

2  A.  Quia,  Amore  Langueo 

iSth  Cent,  (i) 

T  N  a  valley  of  this  resiles  mind 

I  sought  in  mountain  and  in  mead, 
Trusting  a  true  love  for  to  find. 
Upon  an  hill  then  took  I  heed; 
A  voice  I  heard  (and  near  I  yede) 
In  great  dolour  complaining  tho : 
See,  dear  soul,  how  my  sides  bleed 
Quia  amort  languto. 

Upon  this  hill  I  found  a  tree, 
Under  a  tree  a  man  sitting ; 
From  head  to  foot  wounded  was  h;; 
His  hearte  blood  I  saw  bleeding: 
A  seemly  man  to  be  a  king, 
A  gracious  face  to  look  unto. 
1  asked  why  he  had  paining ; 
[He  said,]   Quia  amore  langueo. 

yede]  went. 


ANONYMOUS 

I  am  true  love  that  false  was  never; 
My  sister,  man's  soul,  I  loved  her  thus. 
Because  we  would  in  no  wise  dissever 
I  left  my  kingdom  glorious. 
I  purveyed  her  a  palace  full  precious; 
She  fled,  I  followed,   I  loved  her  so 
That  I  suffered  this  pain  piteous 
Quia  amort  langueo. 

My  fair  love  and  my  spouse  bright! 
I  saved  her  from  beating,  and  she  hath  me  bet , 
I  clothed  her  in  grace  and  heavenly  light; 
This  bloody  shirt  she  hath  on  me  set ; 
For  longing  of  love  yet  would  I  not  let; 
Sweete  strokes  are  these :    lo ! 
I  have  loved  her  ever  as  I  her  het 
Quia  amore  langueo. 

I  crowned  her  with  bliss  and  she  me  with  thorn  5 
I  led  her  to  chamber  and  she  me  to  die; 
I  brought  her  to  worship  and  she  me  to  scorn ; 
I  did  her  reverence  and  she  me  villany. 
To  love  that  loveth  is  no  maistry ; 
Her  hate  made  never  my  love  her  foe: 
Ask  me  then  no  question  why — 
Quia  amore  langueo. 

Look  unto  mine  handes,  man ! 
These  gloves  were  given  me  when  I  her  sought; 
They  be  not  white,  but  red  and  wan ; 
Embroidered  with  blood  my  spouse  them  brought. 


het]  promised. 
36 


ANONYMOUS 

They  will  not  off;    I  loose  hem  nought; 
I  woo  her  with  hem  wherever  she  go. 
These  hands  for  her  so  friendly  fought 
Quia  amore  langueo. 

Marvel  not,   man,    though  I  sit  still. 
See,  love  hath  shod  me  wonder  strait : 
Buckled  my  feet,  as  was  her  will, 
With  sharpe  nails  (well  thou  may'st  wait !) 
In  my  love  was  never  desait ; 
All  my  membres  I   have  opened  her  to; 
My  body  I   made  her  herte's  bait 
Quia  amore  langueo. 

In  my  side  I  have  made  her  nest ; 
Look  in,   how  weet  a  wound  is  here ! 
This  is  her  chamber,  here  shall  she  rest, 
That  she  and  I   may  sleep  in  fere. 
Here  may  she  wash,   if  any  filth  were ; 
Here  is  seat  for  all  her  woe ; 
Come  when  she  will,   she  shall  have  cheer 
Quia  amore  langueo, 

I  will  abide  till  she  be  ready, 
I   will  her  sue  if  she  say  nay  ; 
If  she  be  retchless  I   will  be  greedy, 
If  she  be  dangerous  I  will  her  pray ; 
If  she  weep,  then  bide  I   ne  may : 
Mine  arms  ben  spread  to  clip  her  me  to. 
Cry  once,   I  come :     now,   soul,  assay 
Quia  amore  langueo. 

Fair  love,  let  us  go  play : 
Apples  ben  ripe  in  my  gardayne. 

bait]  resting-place.  wcet]  wet,  in  fere]  together. 


ANONYMOUS 

I  shall  thee  clothe  in  a  new  array, 
Thy  meat  shall  be  milk,  honey  and  wine. 
Fair  love,  let  us  go  dine: 
Thy  sustenance  is  in  my  crippe,  lo ! 
Tarry  thou  not,  my  fair  spouse  mine, 
Quia  amore  langueo. 

If  thou  be  foul,  I  shall  thee  make  clean ; 
If  thou  be  sick,   I  shall  thee  heal ; 
If  thou  mourn  ought,   I  shall  thee  mene ; 
Why  wilt  thou  not,   fair  love,   with  me  deal  ? 
Foundest  thou  ever  love  so  leal  ? 
What  wilt  thou,  soul,  that  I  shall  do? 
I  may  not  unkindly  thee  appeal 
Quia  amore  langueo. 

What  shall  I  do  now  with  my  spouse 
But  abide  her  of  my  gentleness, 
Till  that  she  look  out  of  her  house 
Of  fleshly  affection  ?    love  mine  she  is ; 
Her  bed  is  made,   her  bolster  is  bliss, 
Her  chamber  is  chosen ;     is  there  none  mo. 
Look  out  on  me  at  the  window  of  kindeness 
Quia  amore  langueo. 

My  love  is  in  her  chamber:    hold  your  peace! 
Make  ye  no  noise,  but  let  her  sleep. 
My  babe  I  would  not  were  in  disease, 
I  may  not  hear  my  dear  child  weep. 
With  my  pap  I  shall  her  keep ; 
Ne  marvel  ye  not  though  I  tend  her  to: 
This  wound  in  my  side  had  ne'er  be  so  deep 
But   Quia  amore  langueo. 

cvippe]  scrip.  mene]  care  for. 


ANONYMOUS 

Long  thou  for  love  never  so  high, 
My  love  is  more  than  thine  may  be. 
Thou  weepest,  thou  gladdest,  I  sit  thee  by: 
Yet  wouldst  thou  once,  love,  look  unto  me  ! 
Should  I  always  feede  thee 
With  children  meat?    Nay,  love,   not  so! 
I  will  prove  thy  love  with  adversite 
Qula  amore  langueo. 

Wax  not  weary,  mine  own  wife! 
What  mede  is  aye  to  live  in  comfort? 
In  tribulation  I  reign  more  rife 
Ofter  times  than  in  disport. 
In  weal  and  in  woe  I  am  aye  to  support: 
Mine  own  wife,  go  not  me  fro ! 
Thy  mede  is  marked,  when  thou  art  mort : 
Qula  amore  langueo. 


2f.  The  Nut-Brown  Maid 

I5th  C« 

He.        J~)E  tf  rt$t  or  wrong,   these  men  among 
•U    On  •women  do  complain  ; 
Affirming  this,   hoiv  that  it  is 

A  labour  spent  in  vain 
To  love  them   <wele;    for  never  a  dele 

They  love  a  man  again  : 
For  let  a  man  do  •what  he  can 

Their  favour  to  attain, 
Tet  if  a  new  to  them  pursue, 

Their  first  true  lover  than 
Laboureth  for  naught  ;   for  from  her  thought 

He  is  a  banished  man. 

SS-  never  a  dele]  never  a  bit.  than]  then. 


ANONYMOUS 

She.     I  say  not  nay,  but  that  all  day 

It  is  both  written  and  said 
That  woman's  faith  is,  as  -who  saith> 

All  utterly  decay d : 
But  nevertheless,  right  good  witness 

In  this  case  might  be  laid 
That  they  love  true  and  continue: 

Record  the  Nut-brown  Maid, 
Which,   when  her  love  came  her  to  frovtt 

To  her  to  make  his  moan, 
Would  not  depart  ;    for  in  her  heart 

She  loved  but  him  alone. 

He.      Then  between  us  let  us  discust 

What  was  all  the  manere 
Between  them  two  :     we  will  also 

Tell  all  the  pain  in  fere 
That  she  was  in.      Now  I  begin, 

So  that  ye  me  answere  : 
Wherefore  all  ye  that  present  be, 

I  pray  you.  give  an  ear. 
I  am  the  Knight.      I  come  by  nigh^ 

As  secret  as  I  can, 
Saying,  Alas!     thus  standcth  the  case, 

I  am  a  banished  man. 

She.     And  I  your  will  for  to  fulfil 

In  this  will  not  refuse  ; 
Trusting  to  show,   in  wordes  few. 

That  men  have  an  ill  use — 
To  their  own  shame — women  to  blame. 
And  causeless  them  accuse. 

b  fere]  in  company  together. 
40 


ANONYMOUS 

Therefore  to  you  I  answer  nova, 

All  tuomcn  to  excuse — 
Mine  own  heart  dear,  with  you  what  cheer  ? 

I  pray  you,  tell  anone ; 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 

He,     It  standeth  so:     a  deed  is  do 

Whereof  great  harm  shall  grow: 
My  destiny  is  for  to  die 

A  shameful  death,  I  trow; 
Or  else  to  flee.     The  t'  one  must  be. 

None  other  way  I   know 
But  to  withdraw  as  an  outlaw, 

And  take  me  to  my  bow. 
Wherefore  adieu,  mine  own  heart  true  I 

None  other  rede  I  can: 
For  I  must  to  the  green-wood  go, 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 

She.     O   Lord,  what  is  this  worldis  bliss, 

That  changeth  as  the  moon ! 
My  summer's  day  in  lusty  May 

Is  darked  before  the  noon. 
I  hear  you  say,   farewell :     Nay,  nay, 

We  depart  not  so  soon. 
Why  say  ye  so  ?     whither  will  ye  go  ? 

Alas  !     what  have  ye  done  ? 
All  my  welfare  to  sorrow  and  care 

Should  change,   if  ye  were  gone : 
For,   in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 

rale  I  can]  counsel  I  know. 


ANONYMOUS 

He.     I  can  believe  it  shall  you  grieve, 

And  somewhat  you  distrain ; 
But  afterward,  your  paines  hard 

Within  a  day  or  twain 
Shall  soon  aslake;    and  ye  shall  take 

Comfort  to  you  again. 
Why  should  ye  ought  ?    for,  to  make   \hought, 

Your  labour  were  in  vain. 
And  thus  I  do ;     and  pray  you  to, 

As  hartely  as  I  can  : 
For  I  must  to  the  green-wood  go, 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 


She.     Now,   sith  that  ye  have  showed  to  me 

The  secret  of  your  mind, 
I  shall  be  plain  to  you  again, 

Like  as  ye  shall  me  find. 
Sith  it  is  so  that  ye  will  go, 

I  will  not  live  behind. 
Shall  never  be  said  the  Nut-brown  Maid 

Was  to  her  love  unkind. 
Make  you  ready,  for  so  am  1, 

Although  it  were  anone : 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 

He.     Yet  I  you  rede  to  take  good  heed 
What  men  will  think  and  say: 

Of  young,  of  old,  it  shall  be  told 
That  ye  be  gone  away 

Your  wanton  will  for  to  fulfil, 
In  green-wood  you  to  play; 


ANONYMOUS 

And  that  ye  might  for  your  delight 

No  longer  make  delay. 
Rather  than  ye  should  thus  for  me 

Be  called  an  ill  womin 
Yet  would  I  to  the  green-wood  go, 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 

S&f.     Though  it  be  sung  of  old  and  young 

That  I  should  be  to  blame, 
Theirs  be  the  charge  that  speak  so  large 

In  hurting  of  my  name: 
For  I  will  prove  that  faithful  love 

It  is  devoid  of  shame; 
In  your  distress  and  heaviness 

To  part  with  you   the  same : 
And  sure  all  tho  that  do  not  so 

True  lovers  are  they  none : 
For  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 

He.     I  counsel  you,    Remember  how 

It  is  no  maiden's  law 
Nothing  to  doubt,  but  to  run  out 

To  wood  with  an  outlaw. 
For  ye  must  there  in  your  hand  bear 

A  bow  ready  to  draw ; 
And  as  a  thief  thus  must  you  live 

Ever  in  dread  and  awe ; 
Whereby  to  you  great  harm  might  grow : 

Yet  had  I  liever  than 
That  I  had  to  the  green-wood  go, 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 

art  with]  share  with.  tho]  those. 


ANONYMOUS 

She.     I  think  not  nay  but  as  ye  say; 

It  is  no  maiden's  lore ; 
But  love  may  make  me  for  your  sake, 

As  I  have  said  before, 
To  come  on  foot,  to  hunt  and  shoot, 

To  get  us  meat  and  store; 
For  so  that  I  your  company 

May  have,   I  ask  no  more. 
From  which  to  part  it  maketh  my  heart 

As  cold  as  any  stone ; 
For,   in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 

He.     For  an  outlaw  this  is  the  law, 

That  men  him  take  and  bind-. 
Without  pitie,  hanged  to  be, 

And  waver  with  the  wind. 
If  I  had  need  (as  God  forbede!) 

What  socours  could  ye  find  ? 
Forsooth  I  trow,  you  and  your  bow 

For  fear  would  draw  behind. 
And  no  mervail ;     for  little  avail 

Were  in  your  counsel  than : 
Wherefore  I'll  to  the  green-wood  go, 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 

She.      Right  well  know  ye  that  women  be 

But  feeble  for  to  fight ; 
No  womanhede  it  is,   indeed. 

To  be  bold  as  a  knight: 
Yet  in  such  fear  if  that  ye  were 
With  enemies  day  and  night, 


ANONYMOUS 

I  would  withstand,  with  bow  in  hand, 
To  grieve  them  as  I  might, 

And  you  to  save;     as  women  have 
From  death  men  many  one: 

For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 
1  love  but  you  alone. 

He.     Yet  take  good  hede;    for  ever  I  drede 

That  ye  could  not  sustain 
The  thorny  ways,  the  deep  valleys, 

The  snow,  the  frost,  the  rain, 
The  cold,  the  heat ;     for  dry  or  wele, 

We  must  lodge  on  the  plain ; 
And,  us  above,  no  other  roof 

But  a  brake  bush  or  twain : 
Which  soon  should  grieve  you,   I  believe 

And  ye  would  gladly  than 
That  I  had  to  the  green-wood  £G, 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 


S&e.     Sith  I  have  here  been  partynere 

With  you  of  joy  and  bliss, 
I  must  also  part  of  your  woe 

Endure,  as  reason  is: 
Yet  I  am  sure  of  one  pleasure, 

And  shortly  it  is  this — 
That  where  ye  be,  me  seemeth,  pard6, 

I  could  not  fare  amiss. 
Without  more  speech  I  you  beseech 

That  we  were  shortly  gone; 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 

45 


ANONYMOUS 

He.     If  ye  go  thyder,  ye  must  consider, 

When  ye  have  lust  to  dine, 
There  shall  no  meat  be  for  to  gete, 

Nether  here,  ale,  ne  wine, 
Ne  shetes  clean,  to  lie  between, 

Made  of  thread  and  twine; 
None  other  house,  but  leaves  and  boughs, 

To  cover  your  head  and  mine. 
Lo,  mine  heart  sweet,  this  ill  diete 

Should  make  you  pale  and  wan : 
Wherefore  I'll  to  the  green-wood  go, 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 

She.     Among  the  wild  deer  such  an  archfcre. 

As  men  say  that  ye  be, 
Ne  may  not  fail  of  good  vitayle 

Where  is  so  great  plente : 
And  water  clear  of  the  rivere 

Shall  be  full  sweet  to  me; 
With  which  in  hele  I  shall  right  wele 

Endure,  as  ye  shall  see ; 
And,  or  we  go,  a  bed  or  two 

I  can  provide  anone; 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 

He.     Lo  yet,  before,  ye  must  do  more, 

If  ye  will  go  with  me : 
As,   cut  your  hair  up  by  your  ear, 

Your  kirtle  by  the  knee; 
With  bow  in  hand  for  to  withstand 
Your  enemies,  if  need  be : 

hele]  health. 
46 


ANONYMOUS 

And  this  same  night,  before  daylight, 

To  woodward  will  I  flee. 
If  that  ye  will  all  this  fulfil, 

Do  it  shortly  as  ye  can : 
Else  will  I  to  the  green-wood  go, 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 

She.     I  shall  as  now  do  more  for  you 

Than  'longeth  to  womanhede; 
To  short  my  hair,  a  bow  to  bear, 

To  shoot  in  time  of  need. 
O  my  sweet  mother !     before  all  other 

For  you  I  have  most  drede ! 
But  now,  adieu !     I  must  ensue 

Where  fortune  doth  me  lead. 
All  this  make  ye :     Now  let  us  flee ; 

The  day  cometh  fast  upon : 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 

He.     Nay,  nay,   not  so;     ye  shall  not  go, 

And  I  shall  tell  you  why — 
Your  appetite  is  to  be  light 

Of  love,   I  well  espy : 
For,  right  as  ye  have  said  to  me, 

In  likewise  hardily 
Ye  would  answere  whosoever  it  were, 

In  way  of  company : 
It  is  said  of  old,   Soon  hot,   soon  cold ; 

And  so  is  a  woman : 
Wherefore  I  to  the  wood  will  go, 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 


ANONYMOUS 

She.     It'  ye  take  heed,  it  is  no  need 

Such  words  to  say  to  me; 
For  oft  ye  prayed,  and  long  assayed, 

Or  I  loved  you,  parde: 
And  though  that  I  of  ancestry 

A  baron's  daughter  be, 
Yet  have  you  proved  how  I  you  loved, 

A  squire  of  low  degree; 
And  ever  shall,  whatso  befall, 

To  die  therefore  anone; 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 

He.     A  baron's  child  to  be  beguiled, 

It  were  a  cursed  deed! 
To  be  felaw  with  an  outlaw — 

Almighty  God  forbede ! 
Yet  better  were  the  poor  squyere 

Alone  to  forest  yede 
Than  ye  shall  say  another  day 

That  by  my  cursed  rede 
Ye  were  betrayed.     Wherefore,  good  maid, 

The  best  rede  that  I  can, 
Is,  that  I  to  the  green-wood  go, 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 

She.     Whatever  befall,  I  never  shall 

Of  this  thing  be  upbraid : 
But  if  ye  go,  and  leave  me  so, 

Then  have  ye  me  betrayed. 
Remember  you  wele,  how  that  ye  dele ; 
For  if  ye,  as  ye  said, 

ycde]  went. 


ANONYMOUS 

Be  so  unkind  to  leave  behind 
Your  love,  the  Nut-brown  Maid, 

Trust  me  truly  that  I  shall  die 
Soon  after  ye  be  gone: 

For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 
I  love  but  you  alone. 

He.     If  that  ye  went,   ye  should  repent ; 

For  in  the  forest  now 
I   have  purveyed  me  of  a  maid 

Whom  I  love  more  than  you : 
Another  more  fair  than  ever  ye  were 

I  dare  it  well  avow  ; 
And  of  you  both  each  should  be  wroth 

With  other,  as  I  trow : 
It  were  mine  ease  to  live  in  peace : 

So  will  I,  if  I  can: 
Wherefore  I  to  the  wood  will  go, 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 

She.     Though  in  the  wood   I  understood 

Ye  had  a  paramour, 
All  this  may  nought  remove  my  thought. 

But  that  I   will  be  your'  : 
And  she  shall  find  me  soft  and  kind 

And  courteis  every  hour; 
Glad  to  fulfil  all  that  she  will 

Command  me,  to  my  power : 
For  had  ye,  lo,  an  hundred  mo, 

Yet  would  I  be  that  one : 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

1  love  but  you  alone. 


ANONYMOUS 

He.     Mine  own  dear  love,   I  see  the  prove 

That  ye  be  kind  and  true ; 
Of  maid,  of  wife,  in  all  my  life, 

The  best  that  ever  I  knew. 
Be  merry  and  glad;    be  no  more  sad; 

The  case  is  changed  new ; 
For  it  were  ruth  that  for  your  truth 

Ye  should  have  cause  to  rue. 
Be  not  dismayed,  whatsoever  I  said 

To  you  when  I  began  : 
I  will  not  to  the  green-wood  go ; 

I  am  no  banished  man. 

She.     These  tidings  be  more  glad  to  me 

Than  to  be  made  a  queen, 
If  I  were  sure  they  should  endure; 

But  it  is  often  seen 
When  men  will  break  promise  they  speak 

The  wordis  on  the  splene. 
Ye  shape  some  wile  me  to  beguile, 

And  steal  from  me,   I  ween  : 
Then  were  the  case  worse  than  it  was> 

And  I  more  wo-begone  : 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 

He.     Ye  shall  not  nede  further  to  drede; 

I   will  not  disparage 
You  (God  defend),   sith  you  descend 

Of  so  great  a  linage. 
Now  understand :    to  Westmoreland, 

Which  is  my  heritage, 

on  the  splene]  that  is,  in  haste. 
So 


ANONYMOUS 

I  will  you  bring;    and  with  a  ring. 

By  way  of  marriage 
I  will  you  take,   and  lady  make, 

As  shortly  as  I  can: 
Thus  have  you  won  an   Earles  son, 

And  not  a  banished  man. 

Here  may  ye  see  that  -women  be 

In  love  meek,   kind,   and  stable  f 
Let  never  man  reprove  them  than, 

Or  call  them  variable ; 
But  rather  pray   God  that  <we  may 

To  them  be  comfortable; 
Which  sometime  proveth  such  as   He  loveth, 

If  they  be  charitable. 
For  sith  men   -would  that  women  should 

Be  meek  to  them  each  one; 
Much  more  ought  they  to   God  obey, 

And  serve  but  Him  alone. 


26.       /Is  ye  came  from  the  Holy  Land 

ifttb  Cent 
Aa  ye  came  from  the  holy  land 

"     Of  Walsinghame, 
Met  you  not  with  my  true  love 
By  the  way  as  you  came  ? 

How  should  I  know  your  true  love, 

That  have  met  many  a  one 
As  I  came  from  the  holy  land, 

That  have  come,  that  have  gone  ? 


ANONYMOUS 

She  is  neither  white  nor  brown, 

But  as  the  heavens  fair; 
There  is  none  hath  her  form  divine 

In  the  earth  or  the  air. 

Such  a  one  did  I  meet,  good  sir, 

Such  an  angelic  face, 
Who  like  a  nymph,  like  a  queen,  did  appear 

In  her  gait,  in  her  grace. 

She  hath  left  me  here  alone 

All  alone,  as  unknown, 
Who  sometime  did  me  lead  with  herself, 

And  me  loved  as  her  own. 

What's  the  cause  that  she  leaves  you  alone 

And  a  new  way  doth  take, 
That  sometime  did  love  you  as  her  own, 

And  her  joy  did  you  make  ? 

I  have  loved  her  all  my  youth, 

But  now  am  old,  as  you  see : 
Love  likes  not  the  falling  fruit, 

Nor  the  withered  tree. 

Know  that  Love  is  a  careless  child, 

And  forgets  promise  past : 
He  is  blind,   he  is  deaf  when  he  list, 

And  in  faith  never  fast. 

His  desire  is  a  dureless  content, 

And  a  trustless  joy; 
He  is  won  with  a  world  of  despair, 

And  is  lost  with  a  toy. 


ANONYMOUS 

Of  womenkind  such  indeed  is  the  love, 

Or  the  word  love  abused, 
Under  which  many  childish  desires 

And  conceits  are  excused. 

But  true  love  is  a  durable  fire, 

In  the  mind  ever  burning, 
Never  sick,  never  dead,  never  cold, 

From  itself  never  turning. 


27.       The  Lover  in  Winter  Tlaineth  for 
the  Spring 

i6th  Cent. 

WESTERN  wind,  when  wilt  thou  blow 

That  the  small  rain  down  can  rain  ? 
Christ,  that  my  love  were  in  my  arms 
And  I  in  my  bed  again! 


O 


2S.  Balow 

l*th  Ccr.l 

DALOW,  my  babe,  lie  still  and  sleep! 
It  grieves  me  sore  to  see  thee  weep. 
Wouldst  thou  be  quiet  I'se  be  glad, 
Thy  mourning  makes  my  sorrow  sad : 
Balow  my  boy,  thy  mother's  joy, 
Thy  father  breeds  me  great  annoy — 
Balow,  la-low ! 

When  he  began  to  court  my  love, 
And  with  his  sugred  words  me  move, 
His  faynings  false  and  flattering  cheer 
To  me  that  time  did  not  appear: 


ANONYMOUS 

But  now  I  see  most  cruellye 
He  cares  ne  for  my  babe  nor  me — 
Balow,  la-low ! 

Lie  still,  my  darling,  sleep  awhile, 
And  when  thou  wak'st  thou'le  sweetly  smile ! 
But  smile  not  as  thy  father  did, 
To  cozen  maids :    nay,  God  forbid  ! 
But  yet  I  fear  thou  wilt  go  near 
Thy  father's  heart  and  face  to  bear — 
Balow,  la-low ! 

I  cannot  choose  but  ever  will 
Be  loving  to  thy  father  still ; 
Where'er  he  go,  where'er  he  ride, 
My  love  with  him  doth  still   abide ; 
In  weal  or  woe,  where'er  he  go, 
My  heart  shall  ne'er  depart  him  fro— 
Balow,  la-low ! 

But  do  not,  do  not,  pretty  mine, 
To  faynings  false  thy  heart  incline! 
Be  loyal  to  thy  lover  true, 
And  never  change  her  for  a  new : 
If  good  or  fair,  of  her  have  care 
For  women's  banning  's  wondrous  sare — 
Balow,  la-low  ! 

Bairn,  by  thy  face  I   will  beware ; 
Like  Sirens'  words,   I'll  come  not  near; 
My  babe  and  I  together  will  live; 
He'll  comfort  me  when  cares  do  grieve. 
My  babe  and  I  right  soft  will  lie, 
And  ne'er  respect  man's  crueltye — 
Balow,  la-low  1 


ANONYMOUS 

Farewell,   farewell,   the  falsest  youth 
That  ever  kist  a  woman's  mouth  ! 
I   wish  all  maids  be  warn'd  by  me 
Never  to  trust  man's  curtesye  ; 
For  if  we  do  bat  chance  to  bow, 
They'll  use  us  then  they  care  not  how — 
Balow,  la-low ! 


T 


29.  The  01  J  Cloak 

l6th  Cent.  (?) 

'HIS  winter's  weather  it  waxeth  cold, 
And  frost  it  freezeth  on  every  hill, 
And  Boreas  blows  his  blast  so  bold 

That  all  our  cattle  are  like  to  spill. 
Bell,   my  wife,   she  loves  no  strife ; 

She  said  unto  me  quietlye, 
Rise  up,  and  save  cow  Crumbock's  life! 

Man,  put  thine  old  cloak  about  thee ! 

He.     O   Bell  my  wife,  why  dost  thou  flyte  ? 

Thou  kens  my  cloak  is  very  thin : 
It  is  so  bare  and  over  worn, 

A   cricke  thereon  cannot  renn. 
Then  I'll  no  longer  borrow  nor  lend  ; 

For  once  I'll  new  apparell'd  be  ; 
To-morrow  I'll  to  town  and  spend  ; 

For  I'll  have  a  new  cloak  about  me. 

She.     Cow  Crumbock  is  a  very  good  cow: 

She  has  been  always  true  to  the  pail  ; 
She  has  helped  us  to  butter  and  cheese,    I  trow, 
And  other  things  she  will  not  fail. 

29.  flyte]  scold. 


ANONYMOUS 

I  would  be  loth  to  see  her  pine. 

Good  husband,  counsel  take  of  me : 
It  is  not  for  us  to  go  so  fine — 

Man,  take  thine  old  cloak  about  thee ! 

He.     My  cloak  it  was  a  very  good  cloak, 

It  hath  been  always  true  to  the  wear; 
But  now  it  is  not  worth  a  groat: 

I  have  had  it  four  and  forty  year'. 
Sometime  it  was  of  cloth  in  grain  : 

Tis  now  but  a  sigh  clout,  as  you  may  see: 
It  will  neither  hold  out  wind  nor  rain ; 

And  I'll  have  a  new  cloak  about  me. 

She.     It  is  four  and  forty  years  ago 

Sine  the  one  of  us  the  other  did  ken ; 
And  we  have  had,  betwixt  us  two, 

Of  children  either  nine  or  ten  : 
We  have  brought  them  up  to  women  and  men : 

In  the  fear  of  God  I   trow  they  be. 
And  why  wilt  thou  thyself  misken  ? 

Man,  take  thine  old  cloak  about  theel 

Us.     O  Bell  my  wife,  why  dost  thou  flyte  ? 

Now  is  now,  and  then  was  then: 
Seek  now  all  the  world  throughout, 

Thou  kens  not  clowns  from  gentlemen : 
They  are  clad  in  black,  green,   yellow  and  blue. 

So  far  above  their  own  degree. 
Once  in  my  life  I'll  take  a  view  ; 

For  I'll  have  a  new  cloak  about  me. 


cloth  in  grain]  scailet  cloth.  agb  clout]  a  rag  for  straining. 

56 


ANONYMOUS 

She.     King  Stephen  was  a  worthy  peer ; 

His  breeches  cost  him  but  a  crown ; 
He  held  them  sixpence  all  too  dear, 

Therefore  he  called  the  tailor  '  lown.' 
He  was  a  king  and  wore  the  crown, 

And  thou'se  but  of  a  low  degree : 
It 's  pride  that  puts  this  country  down : 

Man,  take  thy  old  cloak  about  thee  1 

He.     Bell  my  wife,  she  loves  not  strife, 

Yet  she  will  lead  me,   if  she  can ; 
And  to  maintain  an  easy  life 

I  oft  must  yield,  though  I'm  good-man. 
It 's  not  for  a  man  with  a  woman  to  threap, 

Unless  he  first  give  o'er  the  plea  : 
As  we  began,   so  will  we  keep, 

And  I'll  take  my  old  cloak  about  me. 


JOHN  SKELTON 

To  Mistress  Margery  Went  worth 

14601-151$ 


margerain  gentle, 
The  flower  of  goodlihead, 
Embroidered  the  mantle 

Is  of  your  maidenhead, 
Plainly,   I  cannot  glose; 

Ye  be,  as  I  divine, 
The  pretty  prim£rose, 
The  goodly  columbine. 

29.    threap]  argue.  fo.  margerain]  marjoram. 


JOHN  SKELTON 

Benign,  courteous,  and  meek, 

With  wordes  well  devised  ; 
In  you,  who  list  to  seek, 

Be  virtues  well  comprised. 
With  margerain  gentle, 

The  flower  of  goodlihead, 
Embroidered  the  mantle 

Is  of  your  maidenhead. 


To  Mistress  Margaret  Hussey 

AJERRY  Margaret 
***-     As  midsummer  flower, 
Gentle  as  falcon 
Or  hawk  of  the  tower: 
With  solace  and  gladness, 
Much  mirth  and  no  madness, 
All  good  and  no  badness ; 

So  joyously, 

So  maidenly, 

So  womanly 

Her  demeaning 

In  every  thing, 

Far,   far  passing 

That  I  can  indite, 

Or  suffice  to  write 
Of  Merry  Margaret 
As  midsummer  flower, 
Gentle  as  falcon 
Or  hawk  of  the  tower. 


JOHN  SKELTON 

As  patient  and  still 
And  as  full  of  good  will 
As  fair  Isaphill, 
Coliander, 
Sweet  pomander, 
Good  Cassander; 
Steadfast  of  thought, 
Well  made,  well  wrought. 
Far  may  be  sought, 
Ere  that  ye  can  find 
So  courteous,   so  kind, 
As  merry  Margaret, 
This  midsummer  flower, 
Gentle  as  falcon 
Or  hawk  of  the  tower. 


STEPHEN  HAWES 
32.  The  True  Knight 

d  is»t 

pOR  knighthood  is  not  in  the  feats  of  warre, 
As  for  to  fight  in  quarrel  right  or  wrong, 
But  in  a  cause  which  truth  can  not  defarre : 
He  ought  himself  for  to  make  sure  and  strong. 
Justice  to  keep  mixt  with  mercy  among: 
And  no  quarrell  a  knight  ought  to  take 
But  for  a  truth,  or  for  a  woman's  sake. 

ji.  Isaphill]  Hypsipyle.      coliander]  coriander  seed,  an  aromatic, 
pomander]  a  ball  of  perfume.  Cassander]  Cassandra. 

ta.  defarre]  undo. 


STEPHEN  HAWES 

33.  His  Epitaph 

O  MORTAL  folk,  you  may  behold  and  see 
How  I  lie  here,  sometime  a  mighty  knight 
The  end  of  joy  and  all  prosperitee 

Is  death  at  last,  thorough  his  course  and  might : 
After  the  day  there  cometh  the  dark  night, 
For  though  the  daye  be  never  so  long, 
At  last  the  bells  ringeth  to  evensong. 

SIR  THOMAS  WYATT 

34.  Forget  not  yet  ^  ^ 

The  Lover  Beseecheth  his  Mistress  not  to  Forget  hit 

Steadfast  Faith  and  True  Intent 
pORGET  not  yet  the  tried  intent 
*•       Of  such  a  truth  as  I  have  meant; 
My  great  travail  so  gladly  spent, 
Forget  not  yet ! 

Forget  not  yet  when  first  began 
The  weary  life  ye  know,  since  whan 
The  suit,  the  service,  none  tell  can ; 
Forget  not  yet ! 

Forget  not  yet  the  great  assays, 
The  cruel  wrong,  the  scornful  ways, 
The  painful  patience  in  delays, 
Forget  not  yet ! 

Forget  not!    O,  forget  not  this! — 
How  long  ago  hath  been,  and  is, 
The  mind  that  never  meant  amiss — 
Forget  not  yet ! 


SIR  THOMAS  WYATT 

Forget  not  then  thine  own  approved, 
The  which  so  long  hath  thee  so  loved. 
Whose  steadfast  faith  yet  never  moved: 
Forget  not  thisl 


The 


An  Earnest  Suit  to  hit   Unkind  Mistress,   not  to 
Forsake  him 

A  ND  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ? 
•**•    Say  nay,  say  nay,  for  shame  I 
—  To  save  thee  from  the  blame 
Of  all  my  grief  and  grame. 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus? 
Say  nay  !    say  nay  ! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus, 
That  hath  loved  thee  so  long 
In  wealth  and  woe  among  : 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus? 
Say  nay  !    say  nay  1 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus, 
That  hath  given  thee  my  heart 
Never  for  to  depart 
Neither  for  pain  nor  smart: 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ? 
Say  nay  !    say  nay  1 


if.  grame]  sorrow. 


SIR  THOMAS  WYATT 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus, 
And  have  no  more  pitye 
Of  him  that  loveth  thee  ? 
Alas,  thy  cruelty  1 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus? 
Say  nayl   say  nay! 


$6.  A  Revocation 

VVTHAT  should  I  say? 

**     —Since  Faith  is  dead, 
And  Truth  away 
From  you  is  fled? 
Should  I  be  led 
With  doubleness? 
Nay !    nay  !    mistress. 

I  promised  you, 

And  you  promised  me, 
To  be  as  true 
As  I  would  be. 
But  since  I  see 
Your  double  heart, 
Farewell  my  part! 

Thought  for  to  take 

'Tis  not  my  mindj 
But  to  forsake 
One  so  unkind; 
And  as  I  find 
So  will  I  trust. 
Farewell,  unjust ! 


SIR  THOMAS  WYATT 

Can  ye  say  nay 

But  that  you  said 
That  I  alway 

Should  be  obeyed? 
And — thus  betrayed 
Or  that  I  wist! 
Farewell,  unkist! 


7.        Pixi  Tuellis  Nuper  fdoneus .  .  . 

"""THEY  flee  from  me  that  sometime  did  me  seek, 
•*•     With  naked  foot  stalking  within  my  chamber: 

Once  have  I  seen  them  gentle,  tame,  and  meek, 
That  now  are  wild,  and  do  not  once  remember 
That  sometime  they  have  put  themselves  in  danger 

To  take  bread  at  my  hand ;    and  now  they  range, 

Busily  seeking  in  continual  change. 

Thanked  be  fortune,  it  hath  been  otherwise 
Twenty  times  better;    but  once  especial — 

In  thin  array :    after  a  pleasant  guise, 

When  her  loose  gown  did  from  her  shoulders  fall, 
And  she  me  caught  in  her  arms  long  and  small, 

And  therewithal  so  sweetly  did  me  kiss, 

And  softly  said,    '  Dear  heart,   hoiv  like  you  this  *  ' 

It  was  no  dream ;    for  I  lay  broad  awaking : 
But  all  is  turn'd  now,  through  my  gentleness, 

Into  a  bitter  fashion  of  forsaking; 

And  I  have  leave  to  go  of  her  goodness  5 
And  she  also  to  use  new-fangleness. 

But  since  that  I  unkindly  so  am  served, 

'  Ho<w  like  you  this  ?  ' — what  hath  she  now  deserved  ? 


SIR  THOMAS  WYATT 


.  To  His  Lute 

MY  lute,  awake  I    perform  the  last 
Labour  that  thou  and  I  shall  waste. 
And  end  that  I  have  now  begun ; 
For  when  this  song  is  said  and  past, 
My  lute,  be  still,  for  I  have  done. 

As  to  be  heard  where  ear  is  none, 
As  lead  to  grave  in  marble  stone, 

My  song  may  pierce  her  heart  as  soon : 
Should  we  then  sing,  or  sigh,  or  moan? 

No,  no,  my  lute !    for  I  have  done. 

The  rocks  do  not  so  cruelly 
Repulse  the  waves  continually, 

As  she  my  suit  and  affection; 
So- that  I  am  past  remedy: 

Whereby  my  lute  and  I  have  done. 

Proud  of  the  spoil  that  thou  hast  got 
Of  simple  hearts  thorough  Love's  shot, 

By  whom,  unkind,  thou  hast  them  won ,. 
Think  not  he  hath  his  bow  forgot, 

Although  my  lute  and  I  hare  done. 

Vengeance  shall  fall  on  thy  disdain, 
That  makest  but  game  of  earnest  pain : 

Trow  not  alone  under  the  sun 
Unquit  to  cause  thy  lover's  plain, 

Although  my  lute  and  I  have  done. 
64 


SIR  THOMAS  WYATT 

May  chance  thee  lie  wither'd  and  old 
The  winter  nights  that  are  so  cold, 

Plaining  in  vain  unto  the  moon : 
Thy  wishes  then  dare  not  be  told: 

Care  then  who  list !    for  I  have  done. 

And  then  may  chance  thee  to  repent 
The  time  that  thou  has  lost  and  spent 

To  cause  thy  lover's  sigh  and  swoon : 
Then  shall  thou  know  beauty  but  lent, 

And  wish  and  want  as  I  have  done. 

Now  cease,  my  lute  1    this  is  the  last 
Labour  that  thou  and  I  shall  waste, 

And  ended  is  that  we  begun : 
Now  is  this  song  both  sung  and  past  — 

My  lute,  be  still,  for  I  have  done. 


HENRY  HOWARD,  EARL  OF  SURREY 
3  p.  Description  of  Spring 

Wherein  each  thing  renews,  save  only  the  Lover 

«5'6-47 
'""THE  soote  season,  that  bud  and  bloom  forth  brings, 

•*•     With  green  hath  clad  the  hill  and  eke  the  vale: 
The  nightingale  with  feathers  new  she  sings; 
The  turtle  to  her  make  hath  told  her  tale. 
Summer  is  come,  for  every  spray  now  springs : 
The  hart  hath  hung  his  old  head  on  the  pale ; 
The  buck  in  brake  his  winter  coat  he  flings ; 
The  fishes  flete  with  new  repaired  scale. 
jy.  make]  mate. 


HENRY  HOWARD,  EARL  OF  SURREY 

The  adder  all  her  slough  away  she  slings; 
The  swift  swallow  pursueth  the  flies  smale ; 
The  busy  bee  her  honey  now  she  mings ; 
Winter  is  worn  that  was  the  flowers'  bale. 

And  thus  I  see  among  these  pleasant  things 
Each  care  decays,  and  yet  my  sorrow  springs. 


4<3.      Complaint  of  the  Absence  of  Her  Lover 
being  upon  the  Sea 

HAPPY  dames !    that  may  embrace 
The  fruit  of  your  delight, 
Help  to  bewail  the  woful  case 

And  eke  the  heavy  plight 
Of  me,  that  wonted  to  rejoice 
The  fortune  of  my  pleasant  choice : 
Good  ladies,  help  to  fill  my  mourning  voice. 

In  ship,  freight  with  rememberance 

Of  thoughts  and  pleasures  past, 
He  sails  that  hath  in  governance 

My  life  while  it  will  last: 
With  scalding  sighs,  for  lack  of  gale, 
Furthering  his  hope,  that  is  his  sail, 
Toward  me,  the  swete  port  of  his  avail. 

Alas !    how  oft  in  dreams  I  see 

Those  eyes  that  were  my  food; 
Which  sometime  so  delighted  me, 

That  yet  they  do  me  good; 

p.  mings]  mingles,  mixes. 
66 


i: 


HENRY  HOWARD,  EARL  OF  SURREY 

Wherewith  I  wake  with  his  return 

Whose  absent  flame  did  make  me  burn : 

But  when  I  find  the  lack,  Lord !   how  I  ir.ourn ! 

When  other  lovers  in  arms  across 

Rejoice  their  chief  delight, 
Drowned  in  tears,  to  mourn  my  loss 

I  stand  the  bitter  night 
In  my  window  where  I  may  see 
Before  the  winds  how  the  clouds  flee: 
Lo !    what  a  mariner  love  hath  made  me ! 

And  in  green  waves  when  the  salt  flood 

Doth  rise  by  rage  of  wind, 
A  thousand  fancies  in  that  mood 

Assail  my  restless  mind. 
Alas !    now  drencheth  my  sweet  foe, 
That  with  the  spoil  of  my  heart  did  go, 
And  left  me ;    but  alas  !    why  did  he  so  ? 

And  when  the  seas  wax  calm  again 

To  chase  fro  me  annoy, 
My  doubtful  hope  doth  cause  me  plain ; 

So  dread  cuts  off  my  joy. 
Thus  is  my  wealth  mingled  with  woe 
And  of  each  thought  a  doubt  doth  grow ; 
— Now  he  comes!    Will  he  come?   Alas!    no,  no. 

47.        The  Means  to  attain  Happy  Life 

MARTIAL,  the  things  that  do  attain 
The  happy  life  be  these,  I  find:— 
The  richesse  left,  not  got  with  pain ; 
The  fruitful  ground,  the  quiet  mind; 

40.  drencheth]  i.e.  is  drenched  or  drowned. 


HENRY  HOWARD,  EARL  OF  SURREY 

The  equal  friend;    no  grudge,   no  strife  j 
No  charge  of  rule,   nor  governance; 

Without  disease,  the  healthful  life; 
The  household  of  continuance; 

The  mean  diet,  no  delicate  fare; 

True  wisdom  join'd  with  simplenes? ; 
The  night  discharged  of  all  care, 

Where  wine  the  wit  may  not  oppress. 

The  faithful  wife,   without  debate ; 

Such  sleeps  as  may  beguile  the  night : 
Contented  with  thine  own  estate 

Ne  wish  for  death,  ne  fear  his  might. 


NICHOLAS   GRIMALD 
42.  A  True  Love 

1519-61 
VVTHAT    sweet    relief    the    showers    to    thirsty    plants 

we  see, 
What   dear    delight   the    blooms  to  bees,   my  true    love    is 

to  me! 

As  fresh  and  lusty  Ver  foul  Winter  doth  exceed — 
As    morning    bright,     with    scarlet    sky,     doth     pass    the 

evening's  weed — 

As  mellow  pears  above  the  crabs  esteemed  be — 
So    doth    my   love    surmount    them    all,  whom    yet    I    hap 

to  see! 

The  oak  shall  olives  bear,  the  lamb  the  lion  fray, 
The  owl  shall  match  the  nightingale  in  tuning  of  her  lav. 

43.  fray]  affright. 


NICHOLAS  GRIMALD 

Or  I  my  love  let  slip  out  of  mine  entire  heart, 

So  deep  reposed  in  my  breast  is  she  for  her  desart ! 

For  many  blessed  gifts,   O  happy,  happy  land  ! 

Where   Mars   and    Pallas   strive   to   make  their   glory   most 

to  stand ! 

Yet,  land,  more  is  thy  bliss  that,  in  this  cruel  age, 
A   Venus'  imp  thou   hast    brought   forth,    so   steadfast   and 

so  sage. 

Among  the  Muses  Nine  a  tenth  if  Jove  would  make, 
And  to  the  Graces  Three  a  fourth,  her  would  Apollo  take, 
Let  some  for  honour  hunt,  and  hoard  the  massy  gold : 
With  her  so  I  may  live  and  die,  my  weal  cannot  be  told 


ALEXANDER   SCOTT 
43.  A  Bequest  of  His  Heart 

15  jo?- 158- 

LJ  ENCE,  heart,  with  her  that  must  depart, 
•*•  •*•      And  hald  thee  with  thy  soverane  1 
For  I  had  liever  want  ane  heart, 

Nor  have  the  heart  that  dois  me  pain. 
Therefore,  go,  with  thy  luve  remain. 
And  let  me  leif  thus  unmolest; 

And  see  that  thou  come  not  again, 
But  bide  with  her  thou  luvis  best. 

Sen  she  that  I  have  sen-it  lang 

Is  to  depart  so  suddenly, 
Address  thee  now,  for  thou  sail  gang 

And  bear  thy  lady  company. 

4).  hald]  keep.  sen]  since 


ALEXANDER  SCOTT 

Fra  she  be  gone,  heartless  am  I, 
For  quhy?    thou  art  with  her  possest. 

Therefore,  my  heart,  go  hence  in  high, 
And  bide  with  her  thou  luvis  best. 

Though  this  belappit  body  here 

Be  bound  to  servitude  and  thrall, 
My  faithful  heart  is  free  entier 

And  mind  to  serve  my  lady  at  all. 

Would  God  that  I  were  perigall 
Under  that  redolent  rose  to  rest ! 

Yet  at  the  least,  my  heart,  thou  sail 
Abide  with  her  thou  luvis  best. 

Sen  in  your  garth  the  lily  quhyte 

May  not  remain  amang  the  laif, 
Adieu  the  flower  of  whole  delite  1 

Adieu  the  succour  that  may  me  saif! 

Adieu  the  fragrant  balme  suaif, 
And  lamp  of  ladies  lustiest! 

My  faithful  heart  she  shall  it  haif 
To  bide  with  her  it  luvis  best. 

Deploir,  ye  ladies  cleir  of  hue, 

Her  absence,   sen  she  must  depart ! 
And,   specially,  ye  luveris  true 

That  wounded  bene  with   Luvis  dart. 

For  some  of  you  sail  want  ane  heart 
As  well  as  I ;    therefore  at  last 

Do  go  with  mine,  with  mind  inwart, 
And  bide  with  her  thou  luvis  best  I 

belappit]  downtrodden.  perigall]  made  equal  to,  privileged. 

garth]  garden-close.  laif]  rest.  with  mind  inwart]   with 

inner  mind,  i.  e.  in  spirit. 
70 


ALEXANDER  SCOTT 


44.  A  Rondel  of  Love 

T   O,   quhat  it  is  to  iove 

•*-"     Learn  ye  that  list  to  prove. 
By  me,   I  say,  that  no  ways  may 

The  ground  of  grief  remove, 
But  still  decay  both  nicht  and  days 

Lo,  quhat  it  is  to  love! 

Love  is  ane  fervent  fire 

Kindlit  without  desire, 
Short  pleasure,  long  displeasure, 

Repentance  is  the  hire; 
Ane  pure  tressour  without  measour; 

Love  is  ane  fervent  fire. 

To  love  and  to  be  wise, 

To  rage  with  good  advice ; 
Now  thus,   now  than,  so  gois  the  game, 

Incertain  is  the  dice ; 
There  is  no  man,   I  say,  that  can 

Both  love  and  to  be  wise. 

Flee  always  from  the  snare, 

Learn  at  me  to  beware ; 
It  is  ane  pain,  and  double  trane 

Of  endless  woe  and  care ; 
For  to  refrain  that  danger  plain, 

Flee  always  from  the  snare. 


I 


ROBERT  WEVER 
4f.  Tn  Touth  is  T  lea  sure 

c.1550 
'N  a  harbour  grene  aslepe  whereas  I   lay, 

Tne  byrdes  sang  swete  in  the  middes  of  the  day, 
I  dreamed  fast  of  mirth  and  play : 

In  youth  is  pleasure,  in  youth  is  pleasure. 

Methought  I  walked  still  to  and  fro, 
And  from  her  company  I  could  not  go — 
Bat  when  I  waked  it  was  not  so : 

In  youth  is  pleasure,  in  youth  is  pleasure. 

Therefore  my  hart  is  surely  pyght 
Of  her  alone  to  have  a  sight 
Which  is  my  joy  and  hartes  delight: 

In  youth  is  pleasure,  in  youth  is  pleasure. 

RICHARD  EDWARDES 
46.  Amant'mm  Irae  15*3-66 

T  N  going  to  my  naked  bed  as  one  that  would  have  slept, 

I  heard  a  wife  sing  to  her  child,  that  long  before  had  wept : 
She  sighed  sore  and  sang  full  sweet,  to  bring  the  babe  to  rest, 
That  would  not  cease  but  cried  still,  in  sucking  at  her  breast. 
She  was  full  weary  of  her  watch,  and  grieved  with  her  child, 
She  rocked  it  and  rated  it,  till  that  on  her  it  smiled. 
Then  did  she  say,  Now  have  I  found  this  proverb  true  to  prove, 
The  falling  out  of  faithful  friends  renewing  is  of  love. 

Then  took  I  paper,  pen,  and  ink,  this  proverb  for  to  write, 
In  register  for  to  remain  of  such  a  worthy  wight : 
As  she  proceeded  thus  in  song  unto  her  little  brat, 
Much  matter  utter'd  she  of  weight,  in  place  whereas  she  sat : 
7* 


RICHARD    EDWARDES 

And  proved  plain  there  was  no  beast,  nor  creature  bearing  life, 
Could  well  be  known  to  live  in  love  without  discord  and  strife  : 
Then  kissed  she  her  little  babe,  and  sware  by  God  above, 
The  falling  out  of  faithful  friends  renewing  is  of  love. 

She  said  that  neither  king  nor  prince  nor  lord  could  live  aright, 
Until  their  puissance  they  did  prove,  their  manhood  and  their 

might. 

When  manhood  shall  be  matched  so  that  fear  can  take  no  place, 
Then  weary  works  make  warriors  each  other  to  embrace, 
And  left  their  force  that  failed  them,  which  did  consumetherout, 
That  might  before  have  lived  their  time,  their  strength  and 

nature  out : 

Then  did  she  sing  as  one  that  thought  no  man  could  her  reprove, 
The  falling  out  of  faithful  friends  renewing  is  of  love. 

She  said  she  saw  no  fish  nor  fowl,  nor  beast  within  her  haunt, 
That  met  a  stranger  in  their  kind,  but  could  give  it  a  taunt : 
Since  flesh  might  not  endure,  but  rest  must  wrath  succeed, 
And  force  the  fight  to  fall  to  play  in  pasture  where  they  feed, 
So  noble  nature  can  well  end  the  work  she  hath  begun, 
And  bridle  well  that  will  not  cease  her  tragedy  in  some : 
Thus  in  song  she  oft  rehearsed,  as  did  her  well  behove, 
The  falling  out  of  faithful  friends  renewing  is  of  love. 

I  marvel  much  pardy  (quoth  she)  for  to  behold  the  rout, 

To  see  man,  woman,  boy  and  beast,  to  toss  the  world  about : 

Some  kneel,  some  crouch,  some  beck,  some  check,  and  some 

can  smoothly  smile, 

And  some  embrace  others  in  arm,  and  there  think  many  a  wile, 
Some  stand  aloof  at  cap  and  knee,  some  humble  and  some  stout, 
Yet  are  they  never  friends  in  deed  until  they  once  fall  out : 
Thus  ended  she  her  song  and  said,  before  she  did  remove, 
The  falling  out  of  faithful  friends  renewing  is  of  love. 
D3  73 


GEORGE  GASCOIGNE 
.  A  Lovers  Lullaby 

SING  lullaby,  as  women  do, 
Wherewith  they  bring  their  babes  to  rest; 
And  lullaby  can  I  sing  too, 

As  womanly  as  can  the  best. 
With  lullaby  they  still  the  child; 
And  if  I  be  not  much  beguiled, 
Full  many  a  wanton  babe  have  I, 
Which  must  be  still'd  with  lullaby. 

First  lullaby  my  youthful  years, 

It  is  now  time  to  go  to  bed : 
For  crooked  age  and  hoary  hairs 

Have  won  the  haven  within  my  head 
With  lullaby,   then,   youth  be  still ; 
With  lullaby  content  thy  will ; 
Since  courage  quails  and  comes  behind, 
Go  sleep,  and  so  beguile  thy  mind ! 

Next  lullaby  my  gazing  eyes, 

Which  wonted  were  to  glance  apace; 

For  every  glass  may  now  suffice 
To  show  the  furrows  in  thy  face. 

With  lullaby  then  wink  awhile  ; 

With  lullaby  your  looks  beguile; 

Let  no  fair  face,   nor  beauty  bright, 

Entice  you  eft  with  vain  delight. 

And  lullaby  my  wanton  will  ; 

Let  reason's  rule  now  reign  thy  thought ; 
Since  all  too  late  I  find  by  skill 

How  dear  I  have  thy  fancies  bought : 


GEORGE  GASCOIGNE 

With  lullaby  now  take  thine  ease, 
With  lullaby  thy  doubts  appease ; 
For  trust  to  this,  if  thou  be  still, 
My  body  shall  obey  thy  will. 

Thus  lullaby  my  youth,   mine  eyes, 
My  will,  my  ware,  and  all  that  was; 

I  can  no  more  delays  devise ; 

But  welcome  pain,   let  pleasure  pass. 

With  lullaby  now  take  your  leave ; 

With  lullaby  your  dreams  deceive ; 

And  when  you  rise  with  waking  eye, 

Remember  then  this  lullaby. 


ALEXANDER  MONTGOMERIE 
48.          The  Night  is  Near  Gone 

I540?-i6io? 

L_I  EY  !  now  the  day  dawis  ; 
*  •*•  The  jolly  cock  crawis; 
Now  shroudis  the  shawis 

Thro'  Nature  anon. 
The  thissel-cock  cryis 
On  lovers  wha  lyis : 
Now  skaillis  the  skyis; 

The  nicht  is  neir  gone. 

The  fieldis  ouerflowis 
With  gowans  that  growis, 
Quhair  lilies  like  low  is 
As  red  as  the  rone. 

48.  shroudis]  dress  themselves.  shawis]  woods.          skaillis] 

clears.         gowans]  daisies.         low]  flame.         rone]  rowan. 


ALEXANDER  MONTGOMER1E 

The  turtle  that  true  is, 
With  notes  that  renewis, 
Her  pairty  pursuis  : 

The  nicht  is  neir  gone. 

Now  hairtis  with  hindis 
Conform  to  their  kindis, 
Hie  tursis  their  tyndis 

On  ground  quhair  they  grone. 
Now  hurchonis,  with  hairis, 
Aye  passis  in  pairis ; 
Quhilk  duly  declaris 

The  nicht  is  neir  gone. 

The  season  excellis 

Through  sweetness  that  smellis: 

Now  Cupid  compellis 

Our  hairtis  echone 
On  Venus  wha  waikis, 
To  muse  on  our  maikis, 
Syne  sing  for  their  saikis — 

'  The  nicht  is  neir  gone ! ' 

All  courageous  knichtis 
Aganis  the  day  dichtis 
The  breist-plate  that  bright  is 

To  fight  with  their  fone. 
The  stoned  steed  stampis 
Through  courage,  and  crampis, 
Syne  on  the  land  lampis  : 

The  nicht  is  neir  gone. 

pairty]  partner,  mate.  tursis]  carry.  tyndis]  antlers, 

grone]  groan,  bell.  hurchonis]  hedgehogs,  '  urchins.'  maikis] 
mates.  fone]  foes.  stoned  steed]  stallion.  crampis]  prances. 
lampis]  gallops. 

76 


ALEXANDER  MONTGOMERIE 

The  freikis  on  feildis 
That  wight  wapins  weildis 
With  shyning  bright   shieldis 

At  Titan  in  trone ; 
Stiff  speiris  in  reistis 
Ouer  corseris  crestis 
Are  broke  on  their  breistis : 

The  nicht  is  neir  gone. 

So  hard  are  their  hittis, 
Some  sweyis,  some  sittis, 
And  some  perforce  flittis 

On  ground  quhile  they  grone. 
Syne  groomis  that  gay  is 
On  blonkis  that  brayis 
With  swordis  assayis  : — 

The  nicht  is  neir  gone, 

JOHN  STILL,  BISHOP  OF  BATH  AND  WELLS 

49-  J°fy  GooJ  ^e  an 

T   CANNOT  eat  but  little  meat, 

My  stomach  is  not  good ; 
But  sure  I  think  that  I  can  drink 

With  him  that  wears  a  hood. 
Though  I  go  bare,  take  ye  no  care, 

I  nothing  am  a-cold  ; 
I  stuff  my  skin  so  full  within 
Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 

Back  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare  j 
Both  foot  and  hand  go  cold ; 

jS.  freikis]  men,  warriors.  wight   wapins]  stout  weapons, 

at  Titan]  over  against  Titan  (the  sun),  or  read  '  as.'  flittis]  are 

cast.        blonkis]  white  palfreys. 

77 


BISHOP  STILL 

But,  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  enough, 
Whether  it  be  new  or  old. 

I  love  no  roast  but  a  nut-brown  toast, 

And  a  crab  laid  in  the  fire; 
A  little  bread  shall  do  me  stead; 

Much  bread  I  not  desire. 
No  frost  nor  snow,  no  wind,  I  trow, 

Can  hurt  me  if  I  wold; 
I  am  so  wrapp'd  and  thoroughly  lapp'd 

Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 

Back  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare,  &C. 

And  Tib,  my  wife,  that  as  her  life 

Loveth  well  good  ale  to  seek, 
Full  oft  drinks  she  till  ye  may  see 

The  tears  run  down  her  cheek : 
Then  doth  she  trowl  to  me  the  bowl 

Even  as  a  maltworm  should, 
And  saith,   '  Sweetheart,   I  took  my  part 

Of  this  jolly  good  ale  and  old.' 

Back  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare,  &c. 

Now  let  them  drink  till  they  nod  and  wink, 

Even  as  good  fellows  should  do  ; 
They  shall  not  miss  to  have  the  bliss 

Good  ale  doth  bring  men  to ; 
And  all  poor  souls  that  have  scour'd  bowls 

Or  have  them  lustily  troll'd, 
God  save  the  lives  of  them  and  their  wives, 
Whether  they  be  young  or  old. 

Back  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare ; 

Both  foot  and  hand  go  cold ; 

But,  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  enough, 

Whether  it  be  new  or  old. 


ANONYMOUS  (SCOTTISH) 
When  Flora  had  O'crfret  the  Firth 

i6th  Cent 

HEN  Flora  had  o'erfret  the  firth 
In  May  of  every  moneth  queen ; 
Quhen  merle  and  mavis  singis  with  mirth 
Sweet  melling  in  the  shawis  sheen ; 
Quhen  all  luvaris  rejoicit  bene 
And  most  desirous  of  their  prey, 

I  heard  a  lusty  luvar  mene 
— '  I  luve,  but  I  dare  nocht  assay  ! ' 

'  Strong  are  the  pains  I  daily  prove, 

But  yet  with  patience  I  sustene, 
I  am  so  fetterit  with  the  luve 

Only  of  my  lady  sheen, 

Quhilk  for  her  beauty  micht  be  queen, 
Nature  so  craftily  alway 

Has  done  depaint  that  sweet  serene: 
— Quhom  I  luve  I  dare  nocht  assay. 

'She  is  so  bricht  of  hyd  and  hue, 

I   luve  but  her  alone,   I  ween; 
Is  none  her  luve  that  may  eschew, 

That  blinkis  of  that  dulce  amene ; 

So  comely  cleir  are  her  twa  etn 
That  she  mae  luvaris  dois  affray 

Than  ever  of  Greece  did  fair  Helene: 
— Quhom  I  luve  I  dare  nocht  assay ! ' 

o'erfret]  adorned.        shawis]  woods.         sheen]  beautiful.       mene] 
mourn.  hyd]  skin.  blinkis]  gets  a  glimpse.  dulce 

amene]  gentle  and  pleasant  one.         mae]  more. 

79 


ANONYMOUS  (SCOTTISH) 
ri.  Lusty  May 

i6thC 

O  LUSTY  May,  with  Flora  queen! 
The  balmy  dropis  from  Phoebus  sheen 
Preluciand  beams  before  the  day: 
By  that  Diana  growis  green 

Through  gladness  of  this  lusty  May. 

Then  Esperus,  that  is  so  bricht, 
Til  woful  hairtis  castis  his  light, 

With  bankis  that  bloomis  on  every  brae; 
And  schouris  are  shed  forth  of  their  sicht 

Through  gladness  of  this  lusty  May. 

Birdis  on  bewis  of  every  birth, 
Rejoicing  notis  makand  their  mirth 

Richt  plesantly  upon  the  spray, 
With  flourishingis  o'er  field  and  firth 

Through  gladness  of  this  lusty  May. 

All  luvaris  that  are  in  care 
To  their  ladies  they  do  repair 

In  fresh  morningis  before  the  day, 
And  are  in  mirth  ay  mair  and  mair 

Through  gladness  of  this  lusty  May. 


52.         My  Heart  is  High  Above 

i6th  Cent 
A/T  Y  heart  is  high  above,  my  body  is  full  of  bliss, 

For  I  am  set  in  luve  as  well  as  I  would  wiss 
I  luve  my  lady  pure  and  she  luvis  me  again, 
I  am  her  serviture,  she  is  my  soverane; 

;/.  sheen]  bright.          til]  into.          schonris]  showers.          bewis] 
boughs.         birth]  kind.  ja.  wiss]  wish. 


ANONYMOUS 

She  is  my  very  heart,   I  am  her  howp  and  heill, 

She  is  my  joy  invart,   I  am  her  luvar  leal ; 

I  am  her  bond  and  thrall,   she  is  at  my  command; 

I  am  perpetual  her  man,  both  foot  and  hand ; 

The  thing  that  may  her  please  my  body  sail  fulfil ; 

Quhatever  her  disease,  it  does  my  body  ill. 

My  bird,  my  bonny  ane,   my  tender  babe  venust, 

My  luve,   my  life  alane,  my  liking  and  my  lust ! 

We  interchange  our  hairtis  in  others  armis  soft, 

Spriteless  we  twa  depairtis,  usand  our  luvis  oft. 

We  mourn  when  licht  day  dawis,  we  plain  the  nicht  is  short, 

We  curse  the  cock  that  crawis,  that  hinderis  our  disport. 

I  glowffin  up  aghast,  quhen  I  her  miss  on  nicht, 

And  in  my  oxter  fast  I  find  the  bowster  richt ; 

Then  languor  on  me  lies  like  Morpheus  the  mair, 

Quhilk  causes  me  uprise  and  to  my  sweet  repair. 

And  then  is  all  the  sorrow  forth  of  remembrance 

That  ever  I  had  a-forrow  in  luvis  observance. 

Thus  never  I  do  rest,  so  lusty  a  life  I  lead, 

Quhen  that  I  list  to  test  the  well  of  womanheid. 

Luvaris  in  pain,  I  pray  God  send  you  sic  remeid 

As  I  have  nicht  and  day,   you  to  defend  from  deid  ! 

Therefore  be  ever  true  unto  your  ladies  free, 

And  they  will  on  you  rue  as  mine  has  done  on  me. 

heill]  health.        invart]  inward.        renust]  delightful.        glowffin] 
blink  on  awaking.         oxter]  armpit.         a-forrow]  aforetime. 


NUMBERS  FROM 
ELIZABETHAN  MISCELLANIES  &  SONG-BOOKS 

BY  UNNAMED  OR  UNCERTAIN  AUTHORS 

/$.  A  Praise  of  His  Lady 

Tottel's  Miscellany,  1557 

/^  IVE  place,  you  ladies,  and  begone ! 
^*-*      Boast  not  yourselves  at  all! 
For  here  at  hand  approacheth  one 
Whose  face  will  stain  you  all. 

The  virtue  of  her  lively  looks 

Excels  the  precious  stone; 
I  wish  to  have  none  other  books 

To  read  or  look  upon. 

In  each  of  her  two  crystal  eyes 

Smileth  a  naked  boy ; 
It  would  you  all  in  heart  suffice 

To  see  that  lamp  of  joy. 

I  think  Nature  hath  lost  the  mould 

Where  she  her  shape  did  take; 
Or  else  I  doubt  if  Nature  could 

So  fair  a  creature  make. 

She  may  be  well  compared 
Unto  the  Phoenix  kind, 
Whose  like  was  never  seen  or  heard, 

That  any  man  can  find. 
6* 


ANONYMOUS 

In  life  she  is  Diana  chaste, 

In  troth  Penelopey ; 
In  word  and  eke  in  deed  steadfast. 

— What  will  you  more  we  say  ? 

If  all  the  world  were  sought  so  far. 
Who  could  find  such  a  wight? 

Her  beauty  twinkleth  like  a  star 
Within  the  frosty  night. 

Her  rosial  colour  comes  and  goes 

With  such  a  comely  grace, 
More  ruddier,  too,   than  doth  the  rose, 

Within  her  lively  face. 

At  Bacchus'  feast  none  shall  her  meet, 

Ne  at  no  wanton  play, 
Nor  gazing  in  an  open  street, 

Nor  gadding  as  a  stray. 

The  modest  mirth  that  she  doth  use 
Is  mix'd  with  shamefastness ; 

All  vice  she  doth  wholly  refuse, 
And  hateth  idleness. 

O  Lord !    it  is  a  world  to  see 

How  virtue  can  repair, 
And  deck  in  her  such  honesty, 

Whom  Nature  made  so  fair. 

Truly  she  doth  so  far  exceed 

Our  women  nowadays, 
As  doth  the  jeliflower  a  weed ; 

And  more  a  thousand  ways. 


ANONYMOUS 

How  might  I  do  to  get  a  graff 

Of  this  unspotted  tree  ? 
— For  all  the  rest  are  plain  but  chaffj 

Which  seem  good  corn  to  be. 

This  gift  alone  I  shall  her  give; 

When  death  doth  what  he  can, 
Her  honest  fame  shall  ever  live 

Within  the  mouth  of  man. 

?  by  John  Heywood 


74.          To  Her  Sea-faring  Lover 

Tottel's  Miscellany,  1557 

SHALL  I  thus  ever  long,  and  be  no  whit  the  nearc  i 
And  shall  I  still   complain   to  thee,  the  which  me 
will  not  hear  ? 

Alas!    say  nay!    say  nay!    and  be  no  more  so  dumb, 
But  open   thou  thy  manly  mouth  and    say  that  thou   wilt 

come : 

Whereby  my  heart  may  think,  although  I  see  not  thee, 
That  thou  wilt  come — thy  word    so   sware — if  thou  a  live 

man  be. 

The  roaring  hugy  waves  they  threaten  my  poor  ghost, 
And  toss  thee  up  and  down  the  seas  in  danger  to  be  lost. 
Shall   they  not  make  me   fear  that  they  have   swallowed 

thee  ? 
— But  as  thou  ait  most  sure  alive,  so  wilt  thou  come  to  me. 

Whereby  I  shall  go  see  thy  ship  ride  on  the  strand, 
And  think  and  say  Lo  where  he  comes  and  Sure  here   •will 
he  land  : 

S4-  neare]  nearer. 
84 


ANONYMOUS 

And  then  I  shall  lift  up  to  thee  my  little  hand, 
And  thou  shalt  think  thine  heart  in  ease,  in  health  to  see 

me  stand. 

And  if  thou  come  indeed  (as  Christ  thee  send  to  do !) 
Those  arms  which  miss  thee  now  shall  then  embrace  [and 

hold]  thee  too : 

Each  vein  to  every  joint  the  lively  blood  shall  spread 
Which    now    for    want    of  thy  glad    sight    doth    show   full 

pale  and  dead. 

But  if  thou  slip  thy  troth,  and  do  not  come  at  all, 
As  minutes  in  the  clock  do  strike  so  call  for  death  I  shall : 
To  please  both  thy  false  heart  and  rid  myself  from  woe, 
That  rather  had  to  die  in   troth  than  live  forsaken  so ! 


/.         The  Faithless  Shepherdess 

William  Byrd's  Songs  of 
Sundry  Natures,  1589 

YW'HILE  that  the  sun  with  his  beams  hot 

Scorched  the  fruits  in  vale  and  mountain, 
Philon  the  shepherd,  late  forgot, 
Sitting  beside  a  crystal  fountain 

In  shadow  of  a  green  oak  tree, 
Upon  his  pipe  this  song  play'd  he : 
Adieu,   Love,  adieu,   Love,  untrue  Love ! 
Untrue  Love,  untrue  Love,  adieu,   Love ! 
Your  mind  is  light,  soon  lost  for  new  love. 

So  long  as  I  was  in  your  sight 

I  was  your  heart,  your  soul,  your  treasure ; 
And  evermore  you  sobb'd  and  sigh'd 
Burning  in  flames  beyond  all  measure: 

— Three  days  endured  your  love  to  me, 
And  it  was  lost  in  other  three ! 


ANONYMOUS 

Adieu,  Love,  adieu,  Love,  untrue  Love! 
Untrue  Love,  untrue  Love,  adieu,  Love! 
Your  mind  is  light,  soon  lost  for  new  love. 

Another  shepherd  you  did  see, 

To  whom  your  heart  was  soon  enchained; 
Full  soon  your  love  was  leapt  from  me, 
Full  soon  my  place  he  had  obtained. 

Soon  came  a  third  your  love  to  win, 
And  we  were  out  and  he  was  in. 
Adieu,   Love,  adieu,   Love,  untrue  Love! 
Untrue  Love,  untrue  Love,  adieu,   Love ! 
Your  mind  is  light,   soon  lost  for  new  love. 

Sure  you  have  made  me  passing  glad 

That  you  your  mind  so  soon  removed, 
Before  that  I  the  leisure  had 

To  choose  you  for  my   best  beloved : 

For  all  my  love  was  pass'd  and  done 
Two  days  before  it  was  begun. 
Adieu,   Love,  adieu,   Love,  untrue  Love ! 
Untrue  Love,  untrue  Love,  adieu,   Love! 
Your  mind  is  light,  soon  lost  for  new  love. 


Crabbed  Age  and  Touth 

The  Passionate  Pilgrim,  1599 

r^RABB£D  Age  and  Youth 
^-^     Cannot  live  together: 
Youth  is  full  of  pleasance, 
Age  is  full  of  care; 
Youth  like  summer  morn, 
Age  like  winter  weather; 


ANONYMOUS 

Youth  like  summer  brave, 

Age  like  winter  bare. 

Youth  is  full  of  sport, 

Age's  breath  is  short; 

Youth  is  nimble,  Age  is  lame; 

Youth  is  hot  and  bold, 

Age  is  weak  and  cold; 

Youth  is  wild,   and  Age  is  tame. 

Age,   I  do  abhor  thee; 

Youth,   I  do  adore  thee; 

O,  my  Love,  my  Love  is  young! 

Age,  I  do  defy  thee: 

O,   sweet  shepherd,  hie  thee ! 

For  methinks  thou  stay'st  too  long. 

?  by  WUTiam  Shakespeare 

f7.  ThyllMs  Love-Call 

England's  Helicon,  1600 

Phyllida.   CORYDON,  arise,   my  Corydon ! 

^-^     Titan  shineth  clear. 
Corydon.   Who  is  it  that  calleth  Corydon  ? 

Who  is  it  that  I  hear? 
Phyl.   Phyllida,   thy  true  love,   calleth  thee, 
Arise  then,  arise  then, 

Arise  and  keep  thy  flock  with  me! 
Cor.   Phyllida,   my  true  love,   is  it  she  ? 
I  come  then,   I  come  then, 

I  come  and  keep  my  flock  with  thee. 

Phyl.  Here  are  cherries  ripe  for  my  Corydon ; 

Eat  them  for  my  sake. 

Cor.   Here 's  my  oaten  pipe,  my  lovely  one, 
Sport  for  thee  to  make. 


ANONYMOUS 

Pbyl.  Here  are  threads,  my  true  love,  fine  as  silk, 
To  knit  thee,  to  knit  thee, 

A  pair  of  stockings  white  as  milk. 
Cor.  Here  are  reeds,  my  true  love,  fine  and  neat, 
To  make  thee,  to  make  thee, 
A  bonnet  to  withstand  the  heat. 

Phyl.  1  will  gather  flowers,  my  Corydon, 

To  set  in  thy  cap. 
Cor.  I  will  gather  pears,   my  lovely  one, 

To  put  in  thy  lap. 

Phyl.  I  will  buy  my  true  love  garters  gay, 
For  Sundays,   for  Sundays, 

To  wear  about  his  legs  so  talU 
Cor.  I  will  buy   my  true  love  yellow  say, 
For  Sundays,   for  Sundays, 

To  wear  about  her  middle  small. 

Phyl.  When  my  Corydon  sits  on  a  hill 

Making  melody — 
Cor.  When  my  lovely  one  goes  to  her  wheel, 

Singing  cheerily — 

Phyl.  Sure  methinks  my  true  love  doth  excel 
For  sweetness,  for  sweetness, 

Our  Pan,  that  old  Arcadian  knight. 
Cor.  And  methinks  my  true  love  bears  the  bell 
For  clearness,  for  clearness, 

Beyond  the  nymphs  that  be  so  bright. 

Phyl.  Had  my  Corydon,  my  Corydon, 

Been,  alack  !    her  swain — 
Cor.  Had  my  lovely  one,  my  lovely  one, 

Been  in  Ida  plain — 
•'ay]  soie,  silk. 
88 


ANONYMOUS 

Phyl.  Cynthia  Endymion  had  refused, 
Preferring,  preferring, 

My  Corydon  to  play  withal. 
Cor.  The  Queen  of  Love  had  been  excused 
Bequeathing,  bequeathing, 

My  Phyllida  the  golden  ball. 

Phyl.  Yonder  comes  my  mother,  Corydon! 

Whither  shall  1  fly  ? 
Cor.  Under  yonder  beech,   my  lovely  one, 

While  she  passeth  by. 

Phyl.  Say  to  her  thy  true  love  was  not  here* 
Remember,  remember, 

To-morrow  is  another  day. 

Cor.  Doubt  me  not,  my  true  love,   do  not  fear ; 
Farewell  then,  farewell  then ! 
Heaven  keep  our  loves  alway ! 

f8.  A  T  edlar 

John  Dowland's  Second  Book  of 
Songs  or  Air$i  1600 

T^INE  knacks  for  ladies!    cheap,  choice,  brave,  and  new, 
*•      Good  pennyworths — but  money  cannot  move: 
I  keep  a  fair  but  for  the  Fair  to  view — 

A  beggar  may  be  liberal  of  love. 
Though  all  my  wares  be  trash,  the  heart  is  true, 
The  heart  is  true. 

Great  gifts  are  guiles  and  look  for  gifts  again; 

My  trifles  come  as  treasures  from  my  mind: 
It  is  a  precious  jewel  to  be  plain ; 

Sometimes  in  shell  the  orient's!  pearls  we  find : — 
Of  others  take  a  sheaf,  of  me  a  grain ! 

Of  me  a  grain ! 


ANONYMOUS 
fp.  Hey  nonny  no! 

Christ  Church  MS. 

HEY  nonny  no ! 
Men  are  fools  that  wish  to  die! 
Is't  not  fine  to  dance  and  sing 
When  the  bells  of  death  do  ring  ? 
Is  't  not  fine  to  swim  in  wine, 
And  turn  upon  the  toe, 
And  sing  hey  nonny  no  1 
When  the  winds  blow  and  the  seas  flow? 
Hey  nonny  no  ! 

60.  7  rep  a  ra  tions 

Christ  Church  MS. 

VET  if  His  Majesty,  our  sovereign  lord, 

Should  of  his  own  accord 
Friendly  himself  invite, 

And  say  'I'll  be  your  guest  to-morrow  night,' 
How  should  we  stir  ourselves,   call  and  command 
All  hands  to  work !     '  Let  no  man  idle  stand ! 

'  Set  me  fine  Spanish  tables  in  the  hall  ; 

See  they  be  fitted  all ; 

Let  there  be  room  to  eat 

And  order  taken  that  there  want  no  meat. 

See  every  sconce  and  candlestick  made  bright, 

That  without  tapers  they  may  give  a  light. 

'  Look  to  the  presence :    are  the  carpets  spread, 
The  dazie  o'er  the  head, 
The  cushions  in  the  chairs, 
And  all  the  candles  lighted  on  the  stairs  ? 
Perfume  the  chambers,  and  in  any  case 
Let  each  man  give  attendance  in  his  place!  * 
90 


ANONYMOUS 

Thus,  if  a  king  were  coming,  would  we  do ; 

And  'twere  good  reason  too ; 

For  'tis  a  duteous  thing 

To  show  all  honour  to  an  earthly  king, 

And  after  all  our  travail  and  our  cost, 

So  he  be  pleased,  to  think  no  labour  lost 

But  at  the  coming  of  the  King  of  Heaven 

All's  set  at  six  and  seven; 

We  wallow  in  our  sin, 

Christ  cannot  find  a  chamber  in  the  inn. 

We  entertain  Him  always  like  a  stranger, 

And,  as  at  first,   still  lodge  Him  in  the  manger. 

6l,  The  Ne-w  Jerusalem 

Sonf  of  Mary  the  Mother-  q, 
Christ  (London  :  E.  Allde),  l£ 

I_T  JERUSALEM,  my  happy  home, 
1  A      When  shall  I  come  to  thee  ? 
When  shall  my  sorrows  have  an  end, 
Thy  joys  when  shall  I  see  ? 

O  happy  harbour  of  the  Saints ! 

O  sweet  and  pleasant  soil  1 
In  thee  no  sorrow  may  be  found, 

No  grief,   no  care,   no  toil. 

There  lust  and  lucre  cannot  dwell. 

There  envy  bears  no  sway ; 
There  is  no  hunger,  heat,  nor  cold, 

But  pleasure  every  way. 

Thy  walls  are  made  of  precious  stones, 

Thy  bulwarks  diamonds  square  ; 
Thy  gates  are  of  right  orient  pearl, 

Exceeding  rich  and  rare. 


ANONYMOUS 

Thy  turrets  and  thy  pinnacles 

With  carbuncles  do  shine; 
Thy  very  streets  are  paved  with  gold, 

Surpassing  clear  and  fine. 

Ah,  my  sweet  home,  Hierusalem, 

Would  God  I  were  in  thee  ! 
Would  God  my  woes  were  at  an  end, 

Thy  joys  that  I  might  see! 

Thy  gardens  and  thy  gallant  walks 

Continually  are  green; 
There  grows  such  sweet  and  pleasant  flowers 

As  nowhere  else  are  seen. 

Quite  through  the  streets,  with  silver  sound, 

The  flood  of  Life  doth  flow; 
Upon  whose  banks  on  every  side 

The  wood  of  Life  doth  grow. 

There  trees  for  evermore  bear  fruit, 

A  nd  evermore  do  spring ; 
There  evermore  the  angels  sit, 

And  evermore  do  sing. 

Our  Lady  sings  Magnificat 

With  tones  surpassing  sweet ; 
And  all  the  virgins  bear  their  part, 

Sitting  about  her  feet. 

Hierusalem,  my  happy  home, 

Would  God  I  were  in  thee! 
Would  God  my  woes  were  at  an  end, 

Thy  joys  that  I  might  see ! 
9* 


ANONYMOUS 
62.  Icarus 

Robert  Jones's  Second  Book  of 
Songs  and  Airs>  1601 

T   OVE  wing'd  my  Hopes  and  taught  me  how  to  fly 
Far  from  base  earth,  but  not  to  mount  too  high : 

For  true  pleasure 

Lives  in  measure, 

Which  if  men  forsake, 
Blinded  they  into  folly  run  and  grief  for  pleasure  take. 

But  my  vain  Hopes,  proud  of  their  new-taught  flight, 
Enamour'd  sought  to  woo  the  sun's  fair  light, 

Whose  rich  brightness 

Moved  their  lightness 

To  aspire  so  high 

That  all  scorch'd  and  consumed  with  hre  now  drown'd  in 
woe  they  lie. 

And  none  but  Love  their  woeful  hap  did  rue, 
For  Love  did  know  that  their  desires  were  true; 

Though  fate  frowned, 

And  now  drowned 

They  in  sorrow  dwell, 
ft  was  the  purest  light  of  heav'n  for  whose  fair  love  they  fell. 

6$.  Madrigal 

Davison's  Poetical  Rhapsody,  1602 

]V/f  Y  Love  in  her  attire  dotli  show  her  wit, 
•*•'-*•      It  doth  so  well  become  her ; 
For  every  season  she  hath  dressings  fit, 
For  Winter,   Spring,  and  Summer. 
No  beauty  she  doth  miss 

When  all  her  robes  are  on : 
But  Beauty's  self  she  is 

When  all  her  robes  are  gone. 


ANONYMOUS 
4.     How  can  the  Heart  forget  her  ? 

Davison's  Poetical  Rhapsody,  l<5oa 

AT  her  fair  hands  how  have  I  grace  entreated 
•**•     With  prayers  oft  repeated  I 
Yet  still  my  love  is  thwarted: 
Heart,  let  her  go,  for  she'll  not  be  converted — 

Say,  shall  she  go  ? 

O  no,  no,  no,  no,  no ! 
She  is  most  fair,  though  she  be  marble -hearted. 

How  often  have  my  sighs  declared  my  anguish, 

Wherein  I  daily  languish ! 

Yet  still  she  doth  procure  it : 

Heart,  let  her  go,  for  I  can  not  endure  it — 

Say,  shall  she  go  ? 

O  no,  no,  no,  no,  no ! 
She  gave  the  wound,  and  she  alone  must  cure  it, 

But  shall  I  still  a  true  affection  owe  her, 

Which  prayers,   sighs,   tears  do  show  her, 

And  shall  she  still  disdain  me  ? 

Heart,  let  her  go,   if  they  no  grace  can  gain  me — 

Say,  shall  she  go  ? 

O  no,  no,  no,  no,  no ! 
She  made  me  hers,  and  hers  she  will  retain  me. 

But  if  the  love  that  hath  and  still  doth  burn  me 
No  love  at  length  return  me, 
Out  of  my  thoughts  I'll  set  her : 
Heart,  let  her  go,  O  heart  I  pray  thee,  let  her! 
Say,  shall  she  go  ? 
O  no,  no,  no,   no,   no ! 

Fix'd  in  the  heart,  how  can  the  heart  forget  her? 
?  F.  or  W.  Davison 
94 


ANONYMOUS 
6f.  Tears 

John  Dowland's  Third  and  Last 
Book  of  Songs  or  Airs,  1603 

VVTEEP  you  no  more,   sad  fountains ; 

**     What  need  you  flow  so  fast? 
Look  how  the  snowy  mountains 

Heaven's  sun  doth  gently  waste  1 
But  my  Sun's  heavenly  eyes 
View  not  your  weeping. 
That  now  lies  sleeping 
Softly,  now  softly  lies 
Sleeping. 

Sleep  is  a  reconciling, 

A  rest  that  peace  begets; 
Doth  not  the  sun  rise  smiling 
When  fair  at  even  he  sets  ? 
Rest  you  then,  rest,  sad  eyes! 
Melt  not  in  weeping, 
While  she  lies  sleeping 
Softly,  now  softly  lies 
Sleeping. 

66.  My  Lady's  Tears 

John  Dowland's  Third  and  Last 
Book  of  Songs  or  Airs,  1603 

T    SAW  my  Lady  weep, 

And  Sorrow  proud  to  be  advanced  so 
In  those  fair  eyes  where  all  perfections  keep. 

Her  face  was  full  of  woe ; 

But  such  a  woe  (believe  me)  as  wins  more  hearts 
Than  Mirth  can  do  with  her  enticing  parts. 

95 


ANONYMOUS 

Sorrow  was  there  made  fair, 
And  Passion  wise ;    Tears  a  delightful  thing ; 
Silence  beyond  all  speech,  a  wisdom  rare: 

She  made  her  sighs  to  sing, 
And  all  things  with  so  sweet  a  sadness  move 
As  made  my  heart  at  once  both  grieve  and  love. 

O  fairer  than  aught  else 

The  world  can  show,  leave  off  in  time  to  grieve ! 
Enough,  enough:    your  joyful  look  excels: 

Tears  kill  the  heart,  believe. 
O  strive  not  to  be  excellent  in  woe, 
Which  only  breeds  your  beauty's  overthrow. 


67.  Sister,  A-wake  / 

Thomas  Batcson's  First  Set  of 
English  Madrigals,  1604 

SISTER,  awake!    close  not  your  eyes! 
The  day  her  light  discloses, 
And  the  bright  morning  doth  arise 
Out  of  her  bed  of  roses. 

See  the  clear  sun,  the  world's  bright  eye, 

In  at  our  window  peeping  : 
Lo,  how  he  blusheth  to  espy 

Us  idle  wenches  sleeping! 

Therefore  awake !    make  haste,   I  say, 

And  let  us,  without  staying, 
All  in  our  gowns  of  green  so  gay 

Into  the  Park  a-mayingl 
96 


ANONYMOUS 
68.  "Devotion 

Captain  Tobias  Hume's  The  First 
Part  of  Airs,  &>c.,  1605 

T^AIN  would  I  change  that  note 

*•     To  which  fond  Love  hath  charm'd  me 

Long,  long  to  sing  by  rote, 

Fancying  that  that  harm'd  me : 

Yet  when  this  thought  doth  come, 

'  Love  is  the  perfect  sum 

Of  all  delight,' 
I  have  no  other  choice 
Either  for  pen  or  voice 

To  sing  or  write. 

0  Love !    they  wrong  thee  much 
That  say  thy  sweet  is  bitter, 
When  thy  rich  fruit  is  such 

As  nothing  can  be  sweeter. 
Fair  house  of  joy  and  bliss, 
Where  truest  pleasure  is, 
I  do  adore  thee : 

1  know  thee  what  thou  art, 
I   serve  thee  with  my  heart, 

And  fall  before  thee. 

tfp.       Since  First  I  saw  your  Face 

Thomas  Ford's  Music  of 
Sundry  Kinds,  1607 

CINCE  first   I   saw  your  face  I  resolved   to   honour  and 

^     renown  ye ; 

If    now    I    be    disdained    I    wish    my    heart    had    never 

known  ye. 
What  ?   I  that  loved  and  you  that  liked,  shall  we  begin  to 

wrangle  ? 
No,  no,  no,  my  heart  is  fast,  and  cannot  disentangle. 


ANONYMOUS 

If  I  admire  or  praise  you   too   much,    that  fault  you   may 

forgive  me ; 
Or  if  my  hands  had  stray'd  but  a  touch,  then  justly  might 

you  leave  me. 
I  ask'd  you  leave,  you  bade  me  love  ;    is  't  now  a  time  to 


chide 


me : 


No,  no,  no,  I'll  love  you  still  what  fortune  e'er  betide  me. 

The  Sun,  whose  beams  most  glorious  are,  rejecteth  no 
beholder, 

And  your  sweet  beauty  past  compare  made  my  poor  eyes 
the  bolder: 

Where  beauty  moves  and  wit  delights  and  signs  of  kind- 
ness bind  me, 

There,   O  there!    where'er  I  go  I'll  leave  my  heart  behind 


70.    There  is  a  Lady  sweet  and  kind 

Thomas  Ford's  Music  of 
Sundry  Kinds,  1607 

HTHERE  is  a  Lady  sweet  and  kind, 
•*•      Was  never  face  so  pleased  my  mind; 
I  did  but  see  her  passing  by, 
And  yet  1  love  her  till  I  die. 

Her  gesture,  motion,  and  her  smiles, 
Her  wit,  her  voice  my  heart  beguiles, 
Beguiles  my  heart,  I  know  not  why, 
And  yet  I  love  her  till  I  die. 

Cupid  is  winged  and  doth  range, 
Her  country  so  my  love  doth  change: 
But  change  she  earth,  or  change  she  sky, 
Yet  will  I  love  her  till  I  die. 


T 
*-* 


ANONYMOUS 

71.     Love  not  me  for  comely  grace 

John  Wilbye's  Second  Set  of  Madrigals,  1609 
OVE  not  me  for  comely  grace, 
For  my  pleasing  eye  or  face, 
Nor  for  any  outward  part, 
No,  nor  for  a  constant  heart  : 

For  these  may  fail  or  turn  to  ill, 

So  thou  and  I  shall  sever: 
Keep,   therefore,  a  true  woman's  eye, 
And  love  me  still  but  know  not  why—  • 
So  hast  thou  the  same  reason  still 
To  doat  upon  me  ever  ! 

72.  The  Wakening 

John  Attye's  First  Book  of  Airs,  i6aa 

/^\N  a  time  the  amorous  Silvy 

^-^      Said  to  her  shepherd,   '  Sweet,   how  do  ye  ? 

Kiss  me  this  once  and  then  God  be  with  ye, 

My  sweetest  dear  ! 

Kiss  me  this  once  and  then  God  be  with  ye, 
For  now  the  morning  draweth  near.' 
With  that,   her  fairest  bosom  showing, 
Op'ning  her  lips,  rich  perfumes  blowing, 
She  said,    '  Now  kiss  me  and  be  going, 

My  sweetest  dear  ! 

Kiss  me  this  once  and  then  be  going, 
For  now  the  morning  draweth  near.' 
With  that  the  shepherd  waked  from  sleeping, 
And  spying  where  the  day  was  peeping, 
He  said,    '  Now  take  my  soul  in  keeping, 

My  sweetest  dear! 

Kiss  me  and  take  my  soul  in  keeping, 
Since  I  must  go,   now  day  is  near.' 

99 


NICHOLAS  BRETON 
7*  ThiUida  and  Condon 

IN  the  merry  month  of  May, 
In  a  morn  by  break  of  day, 

Forth  I  walk'd  by  the  wood-side 

When  as  May  was  in  his  pride: 

There  I  spied  all  alone 

Phillida  and  Coridon. 

Much  ado  there  was,   God  wot! 

He  would  love  and  she  would  not. 

She  said,  Never  man  was  true; 

He  said,   None  was  false  to  you. 

He  said,  He  had  loved  her  long; 

She  said,   Love  should  have  no  wrong. 

Coridon  would  kiss  her  then  ; 

She  said,  Maids  must  kiss  no  men 

Till  they  did  for  good  and  all ; 

Then  she  made  the  shepherd  call 

All  the  heavens  to  witness  truth 

Never  loved  a  truer  youth. 

Thus  with  many  a  pretty  oath, 
Yea  and  nay,  and  faith  and  troth, 
Such  as  silly  shepherds  use 
When  they  will  not  Love  abuse, 
Love,  which  had  been  long  deluded, 
Was  with  kisses  sweet  concluded  ; 
And  Phillida,  with  garlands  gay, 
Was  made  the  Lady  of  the  May. 


NICHOLAS  BRETON? 


74.  A  Cradle  Song 

The  Arbor  of  Amorous 

Devices,  1593-4 

/^OME  little  babe,  come  silly  soul, 

^•^     Thy  father's  shame,  thy  mother's  grief, 

Born  as  I  doubt  to  all  our  dole, 

And  to  thyself  unhappy  chief: 

Sing  lullaby,  and  lap  it  warm, 

Poor  soul  that  thinks  no  creature  harm. 

Thou  little  think'st  and  less  dost  know 
The  cause  of  this  thy  mother's  moan ; 
Thou  want'st  the  wit  to  wail  her  woe, 
And  I  myself  am  all  alone: 

Why  dost  thou  weep  ?   why  dost  thou  wail  ? 

And  know'st  not  yet  what  thou  dost  ail. 

Come,  little  wretch — ah,   silly  heart  1 
Mine  only  joy,  what  can  I  more? 
If  there  be  any  wrong  thy  smart, 
That  may  the  destinies  implore: 

'Twas  I,   I  say,  against  my  will, 

I  wail  the  time,  but  be  thou  still. 

And  dost  thou  smile  ?     O,   thy  sweet  face ! 
Would  God  Himself  He  might  thee  see !  — 
No  doubt  thou  wouldst  soon  purchase  grace, 
I  know  right  well,   for  thee  and  me  : 

But  come  to  mother,  babe,   and  play, 

For  father  false  is  fled  away. 

Sweet  boy,  if  it  by  fortune  chance 
Thy  father  home  again  to  send, 


NICHOLAS  BRETON? 

If  death  do  strike  me  with  his  lance, 

Yet  mayst  thou  me  to  him  commend : 
If  any  ask  thy  mother's  name, 
Tell  how  by  love  she  purchased  blame. 

Then  will  his  gentle  heart  soon  yield : 

I  know  him  of  a  noble  mind : 

Although  a  lion  in  the  field, 

A  lamb  in  town  thou  shah  him  find: 
Ask  blessing,  babe,   be  not  afraid, 
His  sugar'd  words  hath  me  betray'd. 

Then  mayst  thou  joy  and  be  right  glad; 

Although  in  woe  I  seem  to  moan, 

Thy  father  is  no  rascal  lad, 

A  noble  youth  of  blood  and  bone : 

His  glancing  looks,  if  he  once  smile, 
Right  honest  women  may  beguile. 

Come,  little  boy,  and  rock  asleep; 

Sing  lullaby  and  be  thou  still ; 

I,  that  can  do  naught  else  but  weep, 

Will  sit  by  thee  and  wail  my  fill: 
God  bless  my  babe,  and  lullaby 
From  this  thy  father's  quality. 

SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH 
The  Silent  Lover 

??•  *  I55"i6i 

PASSIONS  are  liken'd  best  to  floods  and  streams: 
*•        The  shallow  murmur,  but  the  deep  are  dumb; 
So,  when  affection  yields  discourse,  it  seems 

The  bottom  is  but  shallow  whence  they  come. 
They  that  are  rich  in  words,  in  words  discover 
That  they  are  poor  in  that  which  makes  a  lover. 


SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH 

76.  it 

VVfRONG  not,  sweet  empress  of  my  heart, 

^^       The  merit  of  true  passion, 
With  thinking  that  he  feels  no  smart, 
That  sues  for  no  compassion. 

Silence  in  love  bewrays  more  woe 
Than  words,  though  ne'er  so  witty  : 

A  beggar  that  is  dumb,  you  know, 
May  challenge  double  pity. 

Then  wrong  not,   dearest  to  my  heart, 
My  true,  though  secret  passion  ; 

He  smarteth  most  that  hides  his  smart, 
And  sues  for  no  compassion. 


77.  His  Tilgrimage 

GIVE  me  my  scallop-shell  of  quiet, 
My  staff  of  faith  to  walk  upon, 
My  scrip  of  joy,  immortal  diet, 

My  bottle  of  salvation, 
My  gown  of  glory,  hope's  true  gage ; 
And  thus  I'll  take  my  pilgrimage. 

Blood  must  be  my  body's  balmer; 

No  other  balm  will  there  be  given  ; 
Whilst  my  soul,   like  quiet  palmer, 

Travelleth  towards  the  land  of  heaven 
Over  the  silver  mountains, 
Where  spring  the  nectar  fountains: 
There  will  I  kiss 
The  bowl  of  bliss ; 


SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH 

And  drink  mine  everlasting  fill 
Upon  every  milken  hill. 
My  soul  will  be  a-dry  before; 
But,  after,  it  will  thirst  no  more. 

7#.  The  Conclusion 

UVEN  such  is  Time,  that  takes  in  trust 
*~*  Our  youth,  our  joys,  our  all  we  have. 
And  pays  us  but  with  earth  and  dust ; 

Who  in  the  dark  and  silent  grave, 
When  we  have  wander'd  all  our  ways, 
Shuts  up  the  story  of  our  days  ; 
But  from  this  earth,  this  grave,  this  dust, 
My  God  shall  raise  me  up,  I  trust. 

EDMUND  SPENSER 
7p.  Whilst  it  is  prime 

«55*-»S 

CRESH  Spring,  the  herald  of  loves  mighty  king, 
*•       In  whose  cote-armour  richly  are  displayd 
All  sorts  of  flowers,  the  which  on  earth  do  spring, 
In  goodly  colours  gloriously  arrayd — 
Goe  to  my  love,  where  she  is  carelesse  layd, 
Yet  in  her  winters  bowre  not  well  awake ; 
Tell  her  the  joyous  time  wil  not  be  staid, 
Unlesse  she  doe  him  by  the  forelock  take ; 
Bid  her  therefore  her  selfe  soone  ready  make, 
To  wayt  on  Love  amongst  his  lovely  crew ; 
Where  every  one,   that  misseth  then  her  make, 
Shall  be  by  him  amearst  with  penance  dew. 

Make  hast,  therefore,  sweet  love,  whilest  it  is  prime 
For  none  can  call  againe  the  passed  time. 
79.  make]  mate. 
104 


EDMUND  SPENSER 
So.  ^  T>itty 

In  praise  of  Eliza,    Queen  of  the  Shepherds 

SEE  where  she  sits  upon  the  grassie  greene, 
(O  seemely  sight  1) 
Yclad  in  Scarlet,   like  a  mayden  Queene, 

And  ermines  white : 
Upon  her  head  a  Cremosin  coronet 
With  Damaske  roses  and  DafFadillies  set: 
Bay  leaves  betweene, 
And  primroses  greene, 
Embellish  the  sweete  Violet. 

Tell  me,  have  ye  scene  her  angelick  face 

Like  Phcebe  fayre  ? 
Her  heavenly  haveour,   her  princely  grace, 

Can  you  well  compare  ? 

The  Redde  rose  medled  with  the  White  yfere, 
In  either  cheeke  depeincten  lively  chere : 

Her  modest  eye, 

Her  Majestie, 
Where  have  you  scene  the  like  but  there  * 

I  see  Calliope  speede  her  to  the  place, 

Where  my  Goddesse  shines ; 
And  after  her  the  other  Muses  trace 

With  their  Violines. 

Bene  they  not  Bay  braunches  which  they  do  bears, 
All  for  Elisa  in  her  hand  to  weare ? 

So  sweetely  they  play, 

And  sing  all  the  way, 
That  it  a  heaven  is  to  heare. 
icdled]  mixed.  yfere]  together. 

E  3  '05 


EDMUND  SPENSER 

Lo,  how  finely  the  Graces  can  it  foote 

To  the  Instrument: 
They  dauncen  deffly,  and  singen  soote, 

In  their  meriment. 

Wants  not  a  fourth  Grace  to  make  the  daunce  even  ? 
Let  that  rowme  to  my  Lady  be  yeven. 

She  shal  be  a  Grace, 

To  fyll  the  fourth  place, 
And  reigne  with  the  rest  in  heaven. 

Bring  hether  the  Pincke  and  purple  Cullambine, 

With  Gelliflowres; 
Bring  Coronations,  and  Sops-in-wine 

Worne  of  Paramoures : 

Strowe  me  the  ground  with  Daffadowndillies, 
And  Cowslips,  and  Kingcups,  and  loved  Lillies: 

The  pretie  Pawnee, 

And  the  Chevisaunce, 
Shall  match  with  the  fayre  flowre  Delice. 

Now  ryse  up,   Elisa,  decked  as  thou  art 

In  royall  aray ; 
And  now  ye  daintie  Damsells  may  depart 

Eche  one  her  way. 

I  feare  I  have  troubled  your  troupes  to  longe: 
Let  dame  Elisa  thanke  you  for  her  song: 

And  if  you  come  hether 

When  Damsines  I  gether, 
I  will  part  them  all  you  among. 

soote]  sweet.         coronations]  carnations.         sops-in-wine]  striped 
pinks.  pawnee]  pansy.          chevisaunce]  wallflower.  flowre 

delice]  iris. 


EDMUND  SPENSER 


Si.  Trothalamton 


was  the  day,  and  through  the  trembling  ayre 
-^      Sweete-breathing  Zephyrus  did  softly  play 
A  gentle  spirit,  that  lightly  did  delay 
Hot  Titans  beames,  which  then  did  glyster  fayre; 
When  I,   (whom  sullein  care, 
Through  discontent  of  my  long  fruitlesse  stay 
In  Princes  Court,  and  expectation  vayne 
Of  idle  hopes,  which  still  doe  fly  away, 
Like  empty  shaddowes,  did  afflict  my  brayne,) 
Walkt  forth  to  ease  my  payne 
Along  the  shoare  of  silver  streaming  Themmes  ; 
Whose  rutty  Bancke,   the  which  his   River  hemmes, 
Was  paynted  all  with  variable  flowers, 
And  all  the  meades  adornd  with  daintie  gemmes 
Fit  to  decke  maydens  bowres, 
And  crowne  their  Paramours 
Against  the  Brydale  day,  which  is  not  Ion?: 

Sweete  Themmes!    runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  Song. 

There,  in  a  Meadow,   by  the  Rivers  side, 

A  Flocke  of  Nymphes  I  chaunced  to  espy, 

All  lovely  Daughters  of  the  Flood  thereby, 

With  goodly  greenish  locks,  all  loose  untyde, 

As  each  had  bene  a  Bryde; 

And  each  one  had  a  little  wicker  basket, 

Made  of  fine  twigs,  entrayled  curiously, 

In  which  they  gathered  flowers  to  fill  their  flasket, 

And  with  fine  Fingers  cropt  full  feateously 

The  tender  stalkes  on  hye. 

Of  every  sort,  which  in  that  Meadow  grew, 

They  gathered  some;    the  Violet,  pallid  blew, 


EDMUND  SPENSER 

The  little  Dazie,  that  at  evening  closes, 

The  virgin  Lillie,  and  the  Primrose  trew, 

With  store  of  vermeil  Roses, 

To  decke  their  Bridegromes  posies 

Against  the  Brydale  day,   which  was  not  long: 

Sweete  Themmes !    runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  Song. 

With  that  I  saw  two  Swannes  of  goodly  hewe 

Come  softly  swimming  downe  along  the  Lee ; 

Two  fairer  Birds  I  yet  did  never  see; 

The  snow,  which  doth  the  top  of  Pindus  strew, 

Did  never  whiter  shew; 

Nor  Jove  himselfe,  when  he  a  Swan  would  be, 

For  love  of  Leda,  whiter  did  appeare ; 

Yet  Leda  was  (they  say)  as  white  as  he, 

Yet  not  so  white  as  these,  nor  nothing  neare; 

So  purely  white  they  were, 

That  even  the  gentle  streame,  the  which  them  bare, 

Seem'd  foule  to  them,   and  bad  his  billowes  spare 

To  wet  their  silken  feathers,  least  they  might 

Soyle  their  fayre  plumes  with  water  not  so  fayre, 

And  marre  their  beauties  bright, 

That  shone  as  heaven*  light, 

Against  their  Brydale  day,  which  was  not  long : 

Sweete  Themmes !    runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  Song. 

Eftsoones  the  Nymphes,  which  now  had  Flowers  their  fill, 
Ran  all  in  haste  to  see  that  silver  brood, 
As  they  came  floating  on  the  Christal  Flood; 
Whom  when  they  sawe,  they  stood  amazed  still, 
Their  wondring  eyes  to  fill ; 
Them  seem'd  they  never  saw  a  sight  so  fayre, 
Of  Fowles,  so  lovely,  that  they  sure  did  deeme 
Them  heavenly  borne,  or  to  be  that  same  payre 
1 08 


EDMUND  SPENSER 

Which  through  the  Skie  draw  Venus  silver  Teeme ; 

For  sure  they  did  not  seeme 

To  be  begot  of  any  earthly  Seede, 

But  rather  Angels,  or  of  Angels  breede ; 

Yet  were  they  bred  of  Somers-heat,  they  say, 

In  sweetest  Season,   when  each  Flower  and  weede 

The  earth  did  fresh  aray ; 

So  fresh  they  seem'd  as  day, 

Even  as  their  Brydale  day,  which  was  not  long : 

Sweete  Themmes !     runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  Song. 

Then  forth  they  all  out  of  their  baskets  drew 

Great  store  of  Flowers,   the  honour  of  the  field, 

That  to  the  sense  did  fragrant  odours  yield, 

All  which  upon  those  goodly  Birds  they  threw 

And  all  the  Waves  did  strew, 

That  like  old  Peneus  Waters  they  did  seeme, 

When  downe  along  by  pleasant  Tempes  shore, 

Scattred  with  Flowres,   through  Thessaly  they  streeme, 

That  they  appeare,  through  Lillies  plenteous  store, 

Like  a  Brydes  Chamber  flore. 

Two  of  those  Nymphes,  meane  while,  two  Garlands  bound 

Of  freshest  Flowres  which  in  that  Mead  they  found, 

The  which  presenting  all  in  trim  Array, 

Their  snowie  Foreheads  therewithall  they  crownd, 

Whil'st  one  did  sing  this  Lay, 

Prepar'd  against  that  Day, 

Against  their  Brydale  day,  which  was  not  long : 

Sweete  Themmes!    runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  Song. 

1  Ye  gentle  Birdes !    the  worlds  faire  ornament, 
And  heavens  glorie,   whom  this  happie  hower 
Doth  leade  unto  your  lovers  blisfull  bower, 
Joy  may  you  have,  and  gentle  hearts  content 

109 


EDMUND  SPENSER 

Of  your  loves  couplement; 

And  let  faire  Venus,  that  is  Queene  of  love, 

With  her  heart-quelling  Sonne  upon  you  smile, 

Whose  smile,  they  say,  hath  vertue  to  remove 

All  Loves  dislike,   and  friendships  faultie  guile 

For  ever  to  assoile. 

Let  endlesse  Peace  your  steadfast  hearts  accord, 

And  blessed  Plentie  wait  upon  your  bord ; 

And  let  your  bed  with  pleasures  chast  abound, 

That  fruitfull  issue  may  to  you  afford, 

Which  may  your  foes  confound, 

And  make  your  joyes  redound 

Upon  your  Brydale  day,  which  is  not  long : 

Sweete  Themmes !    runne  softlie,  till  I  end  my  Song.' 

So  ended  she ;    and  all  the  rest  around 

To  her  redoubled  that  her  undersong, 

Which  said  their  brydale  daye  should  not  be  long: 

And  gentle  Eccho  from  the  neighbour  ground 

Their  accents  did  resound. 

So  forth  those  joyous  Birdes  did  passe  along, 

Adowne  the  Lee,  that  to  them  murmurde  low, 

As  he  would  speake,   but  that  he  lackt  a  tong, 

Yet  did  by  signes  his  glad  affection  show, 

Making  his  streame  run  slow. 

And  all  the  foule  which  in  his  flood  did  dwell 

Gan  flock  about  these  twaine,  that  did  excell 

The  rest,   so  far  as  Cynthia  doth  shend 

The  lesser  starres.     So  they,  enranged  well, 

Did  on  those  two  attend, 

And  their  best  service  lend 

Against  their  wedding  day,  which  was  not  long: 

Sweete  Themmes !    runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  Song. 


EDMUND  SPENSER 

At  length  they  all  to  mery  London  came, 

To  mery  London,  my  most  kyndly  Nurse, 

That  to  me  gave  this  Lifes  first  native  source, 

Though  from  another  place  I  take  my  name, 

An  house  of  auncient  fame : 

There  when  they  came,   whereas  those  bricky  towres 

The  which  on  Themmes  brode  aged  backe  doe  ryde, 

Where  now  the  studious  Lawyers  have  their  bowers, 

There  whylome  wont  the  Templer  Knights  to  byde, 

Till  they  decayd  through  pride: 

Next  whereunto  there  standes  a  stately  place, 

Where  oft  I  gayned  giftes  and  goodly  grace 

Of  that  great  Lord,  which  therein  wont  to  dwell, 

Whose  want  too  well  now  feeles  my  freendles  case; 

But  ah !    here  fits  not  well 

Olde  woes,  but  joyes,  to  tell 

Against  the  Brydale  daye,   which  is  not  long: 

Sweete  Themmes !    runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  Song. 

Yet  therein  now  doth  lodge  a  noble  Peer, 

Great  Englands  glory,  and  the  Worlds  wide  wonder, 

Whose  dreadfull  name  late  through  all  Spaine  did  thunder, 

And  Hercules  two  pillors  standing  neere 

Did  make  to  quake  and  feare : 

Faire  branch  of  Honor,   flower  of  Chevalrie ! 

That  fillest  England  with  thy  triumphes  fame, 

Joy  have  thou  of  thy  noble  victorie, 

And  endlesse  happinesse  of  thine  owne  name 

That  promiseth  the  same; 

That  through  thy  prowesse,  and  victorious  armes, 

Thy  country  may  be  freed  from  forraine  harmes ; 

And  great  Elisaes  glorious  name  may  ring 

Through  al  the  world,  fil'd  with  thy  wide  Alarm  es, 


EDMUND  SPENSER 

Which  some  brave  muse  may  sing 

To  ages  following, 

Upon  the  Brydale  day,  which  is  not  long : 

Sweete  Themmes !    runne  softly  till  I  end  my  Song. 

From  those  high  Towers  this  noble  Lord  issuing, 

Like  Radiant  Hesper,  when  his  golden  hayre 

In  th'  Ocean  billowes  he  hath  bathed  fayre, 

Descended  to  the  Rivers  open  vewing, 

With  a  great  traine  ensuing. 

Above  the  rest  were  goodly  to  bee  scene 

Two  gentle  Knights  of  lovely  face  and  feature, 

Beseeming  well  the  bower  of  anie  Queene, 

With  gifts  of  wit,  and  ornaments  of  nature, 

Fit  for  so  goodly  stature, 

That  like  the  twins  of  Jove  they  seem'd  in  sight, 

Which  decke  the  Bauldricke  of  the  Heavens  bright; 

They  two,   forth  pacing  to  the  Rivers  side, 

Received  those  two  faire  Brides,  their  Loves  delight; 

Which,  at  th'  appointed  tyde, 

Each  one  did  make  his  Bryde 

Against  their  Brydale  day,   which  is  not  long : 

Sweete  Themmes!    runne  softly,  till  I  end  my  Song. 


Y 


82.  Epithalamion 

E  learned  sisters,   which  have  oftentimes 
Beene  to  me  ayding,  others  to  adorne, 
Whom  ye  thought  worthy  of  your  gracefull  rymes, 
That  even  the  greatest  did  not  greatly  scorne 
To  heare  theyr  names  sung  in  your  simple  layes, 
But  joyed  in  theyr  praise ; 
And  when  ye  list  your  owne  mishaps  to  mourne, 


EDMUND  SPENSER 

Which  death,  or  love,  or  fortunes  wreck  did  rayse, 

Your  string  could  soone  to  sadder  tenor  turne, 

And  teach  the  woods  and  waters  to  lament 

Your  dolefull  dreriment: 

Now  lay  those  sorrowfull  complaints  aside; 

And,  having  all  your  heads  with  girlands  crownd, 

Helpe  me  mine  owne  loves  prayses  to  resound ; 

Ne  let  the  same  of  any  be  envide  : 

So  Orpheus  did  for  his  owne  bride ! 

So  I  unto  my  selfe  alone  will  sing ; 

The  woods  shall  to  me  answer,  and  my  Eccho  ring. 

Early,  before  the  worlds  light-giving  lampe 

His  golden  beame  upon  the  hils  doth  spred, 

Having  disperst  the  nights  unchearefull  dampe, 

Doe  ye  awake ;    and,  with  fresh  lusty-hed, 

Go  to  the  bowre  of  my  beloved  love, 

My  truest  turtle  dove ; 

Bid  her  awake ;    for  Hymen  is  awake, 

And  long  since  ready  forth  his  maske  to  move, 

With  his  bright  Tead  that  flames  with  many  a  flake, 

And  many  a  bachelor  to  waite  on  him, 

In  theyr  fresh  garments  trim. 

Bid  her  awake  therefore,   and  soone  her  dight, 

For  lo  !    the  wished  day  is  come  at  last, 

That  shall,  for  all  the  paynes  and  sorrowes  past, 

Pay  to  her  usury  of  long  delight: 

And,  whylest  she  doth  her  dight, 

Doe  ye  to  her  of  joy  and  solace  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  eccho  ring. 

Bring  with  you  all  the  Nymphes  that  you  can  heare 
Both  of  the  rivers  and  the  forrests  greene, 
lead]  torch. 

"3 


EDMUND  SPENSER 

And  of  the  sea  that  neighbours  to  her  neare: 

Al  with  gay  girlands  goodly  wel  beseene. 

And  let  them  also  with  them  bring  in  hand 

Another  gay  girland 

For  my  fayre  love,  of  lillyes  and  of  roses, 

Bound  truelove  wize,  with  a  blew  silke  riband. 

And  let  them  make  great  store  of  bridale  poses, 

And  let  them  eeke  bring  store  of  other  flowers, 

To  deck  the  bridale  bowers. 

And  let  the  ground  whereas  her  foot  shall  tread, 

For  feare  the  stones  her  tender  foot  should  wrong, 

Be  strewed  with  fragrant  flowers  all  along, 

And  diapred  lyke  the  discolored  mead. 

Which  done,  doe  at  her  chamber  dore  awayt, 

For  she  will  waken  strayt; 

The  whiles  doe  ye  this  song  unto  her  sing, 

The  woods  shall  to  you  answer,  and  your  Eccho  ring. 

Ye  Nymphes  of  Mulla,  which  with  carefull  heed 
The  silver  scaly  trouts  doe  tend  full  well, 
And  greedy  pikes  which  use  therein  to  feed; 
(Those  trouts  and  pikes  all  others  doo  excell ;) 
And  ye  likewise,  which  keepe  the  rushy  lake, 
Where  none  doo  fishes  take; 

Bynd  up  the  locks  the  which  hang  scatterd  light, 
And  in  his  waters,  which  your  mirror  make, 
Behold  your  faces  as  the  christall  bright, 
That  when  you  come  whereas  my  love  doth  lie, 
No  blemish  she  may  spie. 

And  eke,  ye  lightfoot  mayds,  which  keepe  the  deere, 
That  on  the  hoary  mountayne  used  to  towre  ; 
And  the  wylde  wolves,  which  seeke  them  to  devoure, 
With  your  steele  darts  doo  chace  from  comming  neer; 
Be  also  present  heere, 
114 


EDMUND  SPENSER 

To  helpe  to  decke  her,  and  to  help  to  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  eccho  ring. 

Wake  now,  my  love,   awake !    for  it  is  time ; 

The  Rosy  Morne  long  since  left  Tithones  bed, 

All  ready  to  her  silver  coche  to  clyme ; 

And  Phoebus  gins  to  shew  his  glorious  hed. 

Hark  !    how  the  cheerefull  birds  do  chaunt  theyr  laies 

And  carroll  of  Loves  praise. 

The  merry  Larke  hir  mattins  sings  aloft ; 

The  Thrush  replyes ;    the  Mavis  descant  playes ; 

The  Ouzell  shrills;    the  Ruddock  warbles  soft; 

So  goodly  all  agree,  with  sweet  consent, 

To  this  dayes  merriment. 

Ah !    my  deere  love,   why  doe  ye  sleepe  thus  long  ? 

When  meeter  were  that  ye  should  now  awake, 

T'  awayt  the  comming  of  your  joyous  make, 

And  hearken  to  the  birds  love-learned  song, 

The  deawy  leaves  among! 

Nor  they  of  joy  and  pleasance  to  you  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  them  answer,  and  theyr  eccho  ring. 

My  love  is  now  awake  out  of  her  dreames, 
And  her  fayre  eyes,  like  stars  that  dimmed  were 
With  darksome  cloud,  now  shew  theyr  goodly  beams 
More  bright  then  Hesperus  his  head  doth  rere. 
Come  now,   ye  damzels,   daughters  of  delight, 
Helpe  quickly  her  to  dight : 

But  first  come  ye  fayre  houres,  which  were  begot 
In  Joves  sweet  paradice  of  Day  and  Night ; 
Which  doe  the  seasons  of  the  yeare  allot, 
And  al,  that  ever  in  this  world  is  fayre, 
Doe  make  and  still  repayre : 
ruddock]  redbreast. 

"5 


EDMUND  SPENSER 

And  ye  three  handmayds  of  the  Cyprian  Queene, 

The  which  doe  still  adorne  her  beauties  pride, 

Helpe  to  addorne  my  beautifullest  bride: 

And,  as  ye  her  array,  still  throw  betweene 

Some  graces  to  be  seene ; 

And,  as  ye  use  to  Venus,  to  her  sing, 

The  whiles  the  woods  shal  answer,  and  your  eccho  ring. 

Now  is  my  love  all  ready  forth  to  come : 

Let  all  the  virgins  therefore  well  awayt: 

And  ye  fresh  boyes,  that  tend  upon  her  groome, 

Prepare  your  selves ;    for  he  is  comming  strayt. 

Set  all  your  things  in  seemely  good  aray, 

Fit  for  so  joyfull  day : 

The  joylulst  day  that  ever  sunne  did  see. 

Faire  Sun  !    shew  forth  thy  favourable  ray, 

And  let  thy  lifull  heat  not  fervent  be, 

For  feare  of  burning  her  sunshyny  face, 

Her  beauty  to  disgrace. 

O  fayrest  Phoebus  !    father  of  the  Muse  ! 

If  ever  I  did  honour  thee  aright, 

Or  sing  the  thing  that  mote  thy  mind  delight, 

Doe  not  thy  servants  simple  boone  refuse  ; 

But  let  this  day,  let  this  one  day,  be  myne; 

Let  all  the  rest  be  thine. 

Then  I  thy  soverayne  prayses  loud  wil  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  shal  answer,  and  theyr  eccho  ring. 

Harke!  how  the  Minstrils  gin  to  shrill  aloud 
Their  merry  Musick  that  resounds  from  far, 
The  pipe,  the  tabor,  and  the  trembling  Croud, 
That  well  agree  withouten  breach  or  jar. 

croud]  violin. 
116 


EDMUND  SPENSER 

But,  most  of  all,  the  Damzels  doe  delite 

When  they  their  tymbrels  smyte, 

And  thereunto  doe  daunce  and  carrol  sweet, 

That  all  the  sences  they  doe  ravish  quite ; 

The  whyles  the  boyes  run  up  and  downe  the  street, 

Crying  aloud  with  strong  confused  noyce, 

As  if  it  were  one  voyce, 

Hymen,   io  Hymen,   Hymen,   they  do  shout; 

That  even  to  the  heavens  theyr  shouting  shrill 

Doth  reach,  and  all  the  firmament  doth  fill ; 

To  which  the  people  standing  all  about, 

As  in  approvance,  doe  thereto  applaud, 

And  loud  advaunce  her  laud ; 

And  evermore  they  Hymen,   Hymen  sing, 

That  al  the  woods  them  answer,  and  theyr  eccho  ring. 

Loe !    where  she  comes  along  with  portly  pace, 

Lyke  Phoebe,  from  her  chamber  of  the  East, 

Arysing  forth  to  run  her  mighty  race, 

Clad  all  in  white,   that  seemes  a  virgin  best. 

So  well  it  her  beseemes,  that  ye  would  weene 

Some  angell  she  had  beene. 

Her  long  loose  yellow  locks  lyke  golden  wyre, 

Sprinckled  with  perle,  and  perling  flowres  atweene, 

Doe  lyke  a  golden  mantle  her  attyre  ; 

And,  being  crowned  with  a  girland  greene, 

Seeme  lyke  some  mayden  Queene. 

Her  modest  eyes,   abashed  to  behold 

So  many  gazers  as  on  her  do  stare, 

Upon  the  lowly  ground  affixed  are; 

Ne  dare  lift  up  her  countenance  too  bold, 

But  blush  to  heare  her  prayses  sung  so  loud, 

So  farre  from  being  proud. 


EDMUND  SPENSER 

Nathlesse  doe  ye  still  loud  her  prayses  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  eccho  ring. 

Tell  me,  ye  merchants  daughters,  did  ye  see 

So  fayre  a  creature  in  your  towne  before  ; 

So  sweet,  so  lovely,  and  so  mild  as  she, 

Adornd  with  beautyes  grace  and  vertues  store  ? 

Her  goodly  eyes  lyke  Saphyres  shining  bright, 

Her  forehead  yvory  white, 

Her  cheekes  lyke  apples  which  the  sun  hath  rudded, 

Her  lips  lyke  cherryes  charming  men  to  byte, 

Her  brest  like  to  a  bowle  of  creame  uncrudded, 

Her  paps  lyke  lyllies  budded, 

Her  snowie  necke  lyke  to  a  marble  towre ; 

And  all  her  body  like  a  pallace  fayre, 

Ascending  up,  with  many  a  stately  stayre, 

To  honors  seat  and  chastities  sweet  bowre. 

Why  stand  ye  still  ye  virgins  in  amaze, 

Upon  her  so  to  gaze, 

Whiles  ye  forget  your  former  lay  to  sing, 

To  which  the  woods  did  answer,  and  your  eccho  ring  ? 

But  if  ye  saw  that  which  no  eyes  can  see, 

The  inward  beauty  of  her  lively  spright, 

Garnisht  with  heavenly  guifts  of  high  degree, 

Much  more  then  would  ye  wonder  at  that  sight, 

And  stand  astonisht  lyke  to  those  which  red 

Medusaes  mazeful  hed. 

There  dwels  sweet  love,  and  constant  chastity, 

Unspotted  fayth,  and  comely  womanhood, 

Regard  of  honour,  and  mild  modesty  ; 

There  vertue  raynes  as  Queene  in  royal  throne, 

And  giveth  lawes  alone, 

The  which  the  base  affections  doe  obay, 

118 


EDMUND  SPENSER 

And  yeeld  theyr  services  unto  her  will  ; 

Ne  thought  of  thing  uncomely  ever  may 

Thereto  approch  to  tempt  her  mind  to  ill. 

Had  ye  once  seene  these  her  celestial  threasures, 

And  unrevealed  pleasures, 

Then  would  ye  wonder,  and  her  prayses  sing, 

That  al  the  woods  should  answer,   and  your  echo  ring. 

Open  the  temple  gates  unto  my  love, 

Open  them  wide  that  she  may  enter  in, 

And  all  the  postes  adorne  as  doth  behove, 

And  all  the  pillours  deck  with  girlands  trim, 

For  to  receyve  this  Saynt  with  honour  dew, 

That  commeth  in  to  you. 

With  trembling  steps,   and  humble  reverence, 

She  commeth  in,   before  th'  Almighties  view ; 

Of  her  ye  virgins  learne  obedience, 

When  so  ye  come  into  those  holy  places, 

To  humble  your  proud  faces : 

Bring  her  up  to  th'  high  altar,  that  she  may 

The  sacred  ceremonies  there  partake, 

The  which  do  endlesse  matrimony  make  ; 

And  let  the  roring  Organs  loudly  play 

The  praises  of  the  Lord  in  lively  notes  ; 

The  whiles,  with  hollow  throates, 

The  Choristers  the  joyous  Antheme  sing, 

That  al  the  woods  may  answere,  and  their  eccho  ring. 

Behold,  whiles  she  before  the  altar  stands, 
Hearing  the  holy  priest  that  to  her  speakes, 
And  blesseth  her  with  his  two  happy  hands, 
How  the  red  roses  flush  up  in  her  cheekes, 
And  the  pure  snow,  with  goodly  vermill  stayne 
Like  crimsin  dyde  in  grayne  : 

119 


EDMUND  SPENSER 

That  even  th'  Angels,   which  continually 

About  the  sacred  Altare  doe  remaine, 

Forget  their  service  and  about  her  fly, 

Ofte  peeping  in  her  face,  that  seems  more  fayre, 

The  more  they  on  it  stare. 

But  her  sad  eyes,   still  fastened  on  the  ground, 

Are  governed  with  goodly  modesty, 

That  suffers  not  one  looke  to  glaunce  awry, 

Which  may  let  in  a  little  thought  unsownd. 

Why  blush  ye,  love,  to  give  to  me  your  hand, 

The  pledge  of  all  our  band ! 

Sing,  ye  sweet  Angels,   Alleluya  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  may  answere,  and  your  eccho  ring. 

Now  al  is  done:    bring  home  the  bride  againe; 

Bring  home  the  triumph  of  our  victory : 

Bring  home  with  you  the  glory  of  her  gaine  ; 

With  joyance  bring  her  and  with  jollity. 

Never  had  man  more  joyfull  day  then  this, 

Whom  heaven  would  heape  with  blis, 

Make  feast  therefore  now  all  this  live-long  day ; 

This  day  for  ever  to  me  holy  is. 

Poure  out  the  wine  without  restraint  or  stay, 

Poure  not  by  cups,  but  by  the  belly  full, 

Poure  out  to  all  that  wull, 

And  sprinkle  all  the  postes  and  wals  with  wine, 

That  they  may  sweat,  and  drunken  be  withall. 

Crowne  ye  God  Bacchus  with  a  coronall, 

And  Hymen  also  crowne  with  wreathes  of  vine  ; 

And  let  the  Graces  daunce  unto  the  rest, 

For  they  can  doo  it  best: 

The  whiles  the  maydens  doe  theyr  carroll  sing, 

To  which  the  woods  shall  answer,  and  theyr  eccho  ring. 


EDMUND  SPENSER 

Ring  ye  the  bels,   ye  yong  men  of  the  towne, 

And  leave  your  wonted  labors  for  this  day : 

This  day  is  holy ;    doe  ye  write  it  downe, 

That  ye  for  ever  it  remember  may. 

This  day  the  sunne  is  in  his  chiefest  hight, 

With  Barnaby  the  bright, 

From  whence  declining  daily  by  degrees, 

He  somewhat  loseth  of  his  heat  and  light, 

When  once  the  Crab  behind  his  back  he  sees. 

But  for  this  time  it  ill  ordained  was, 

To  chose  the  longest  day  in  all  the  yeare, 

And  shortest  night,  when  longest  fitter  weare: 

Yet  never  day  so  long,   but  late  would  passe. 

Ring  ye  the  bels,   to  make  it  weare  away, 

And  bonefiers  make  all  day ; 

And  daunce  about  them,   and  about  them  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your  eccho  ring. 

Ah  !    when  will  this  long  weary  day  have  end, 
And  lende  me  leave  to  come  unto  my  love  ? 
How  slowly  do  the  houres  theyr  numbers  spend  ? 
How  slowly  does  sad  Time  his  feathers  move  ? 
Hast  thee,   O  fayrest  Planet,  to  thy  home, 
Within  the  Westerne  fome : 

Thy  tyred  steedes  long  since  have  need  of  rest. 
Long  though  it  be,   at  last  I   see  it  gloome, 
And  the  bright  evening-star  with  golden  creast 
Appeare  out  of  the  East. 

Fayre  childe  of  beauty  1    glorious  lampe  of  love  ! 
That  all  the  host  of  heaven  in  rankes  doost  lead, 
And  guydest  lovers  through  the  nights  sad  dread, 
How  chearefully  thou  lookest  from  above, 
And  seemst  to  laugh  atweene  thy  twinkling  light, 
As  joying  in  the  sight 


EDMUND  SPENSER 

Of  these  glad  many,  which  for  joy  doe  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  them  answer,  and  their  echo  ring ! 

Now  ceasse,  ye  damsels,  your  delights  fore-past; 

Enough  it  is  that  all  the  day  was  youres : 

Now  day  is  doen,   and  night  is  nighing  fast, 

Now  bring  the  Bryde  into  the  brydall  boures. 

The  night  is  come,  now  soon  her  disaray, 

And  in  her  bed  her  lay; 

Lay  her  in  lillies  and  in  violets, 

And  silken  courteins  over  her  display, 

And  odourd  sheetes,   and  Arras  coverlets. 

Behold  how  goodly  my  faire  love  does  ly, 

In  proud  humility ! 

Like  unto  Maia,  when  as  Jove  her  took 

In  Tempe,  lying  on  the  flowry  gras, 

Twixt  sleepe  and  wake,  after  she  weary  was, 

With  bathing  in  the  Acidalian  brooke. 

Now  it  is  night,  ye  damsels  may  be  gon, 

And  leave  my  love  alone, 

And  leave  likewise  your  former  lay  to  sing  : 

The  woods  no  more  shall  answere,  nor  your  echo  ring. 

Now  welcome,  night !    thou  night  so  long  expected, 

That  long  daies  labour  doest  at  last  defray, 

And  all  my  cares,  which  cruell  Love  collected, 

Hast  sumd  in  one,  and  cancelled  for  aye : 

Spread  thy  broad  wing  over  my  love  and  me, 

That  no  man  may  us  see ; 

And  in  thy  sable  mantle  us  enwrap, 

From  feare  of  perrill  and  foule  horror  free. 

Let  no  false  treason  seeke  us  to  entrap. 

Nor  any  dread  disquiet  once  annoy 

The  safety  of  our  joy  ; 


EDMUND  SPENSER 

But  let  the  night  be  calme,   and  quietsome, 

Without  tempestuous  storms  or  sad  afray : 

Lyke  as  when  Jove  with  fayre  Alcmena  lay, 

When  he  begot  the  great  Tirynthian  groome : 

Or  lyke  as  when  he  with  thy  selfe  did  lie 

And  begot  Majesty. 

And  let  the  mayds  and  yong  men  cease  to  sing  ; 

Ne  let  the  woods  them  answer  nor  theyr  eccho  ring. 

Let  no  lamenting  cryes,   nor  dolefull  teares, 

Be  heard  all  night  within,  nor  yet  without: 

Ne  let  false  whispers,   breeding  hidden  feares, 

Breake  gentle  sleepe  with  misconceived  dout. 

Let  no  deluding  dreames,  nor  dreadfull  sights, 

Make  sudden  sad  affrights  ; 

Ne  let  house-fyres,   nor  lightnings  helpelesse  harmes, 

Ne  let  the  Pouke,  nor  other  evill  sprights, 

Ne  let  mischivous  witches  with  theyr  charmes, 

Ne  let  hob  Goblins,  names  whose  sence  we  see  not, 

Fray  us  with  things  that  be  not: 

Let  not  the  shriech  Oule  nor  the  Storke  be  heard, 

Nor  the  night  Raven,   that  still  deadly  yels; 

Nor  damned  ghosts,   cald  up  with  mighty  spels, 

Nor  griesly  vultures,   make  us  once  affeard : 

Ne  let  th'  unpleasant  Quyre  of  Frogs  still  croking 

Make  us  to  wish  theyr  choking. 

Let  none  of  these  theyr  drery  accents  sing  ; 

Ne  let  the  woods  them  answer,  nor  theyr  eccho  ring. 

But  let  stil   Silence  trew  night-watches  keepe, 
That  sacred  Peace  may  in  assurance  rayne, 
And  tymely  Sleep,  when  it  is  tyme  to  sleepe, 
May  poure  his  limbs  forth  on  your  pleasant  playne; 
The  whiles  an  hundred  little  winged  loves, 


EDMUND  SPENSER 

Like  divers- fethered  doves, 

Shall  fly  and  flutter  round  about  your  bed, 

And  in  the  secret  darke,  that  none  reproves, 

Their  prety  stealthes  shal  worke,  and  snares  shal  spread 

To  filch  away  sweet  snatches  of  delight, 

Conceald  through  covert  night. 

Ye  sonnes  of  Venus,  play  your  sports  at  will ! 

For  greedy  pleasure,  carelesse  of  your  toyes, 

Thinks  more  upon  her  paradise  of  joyes, 

Then  what  ye  do,   albe  it  good  or  ill. 

All  night  therefore  attend  your  merry  play, 

For  it  will  soone  be  day  : 

Now  none  doth  hinder  you,  that  say  or  sing ; 

Ne  will  the  woods  now  answer,  nor  your  Eccho  ring. 

Who  is  the  same,  which  at  my  window  peepes  ? 

Or  whose  is  that  faire  face  that  shines  so  bright? 

Is  it  not  Cinthia,   she  that  never  sleepes, 

But  walkes  about  high  heaven  al  the  night  ? 

O  !    fayrest  goddesse,  do  thou  not  envy 

My  love  with  me  to  spy  : 

For  thou  likewise  didst  love,  though  now  unthought, 

And  for  a  fleece  of  wooll,   which  privily 

The  Latmian  shepherd  once  unto  thee  brought, 

His  pleasures  with  thee  wrought. 

Therefore  to  us  be  favorable  now  ; 

And  sith  of  wemens  labours  thou  hast  charge, 

And  generation  goodly  dost  enlarge, 

Encline  thy  will  t'effect  our  wishfull  vow, 

And  the  chast  wombe  informe  with  timely  seed, 

That  may  our  comfort  breed  : 

Till  which  we  cease  our  hopefull  hap  to  sing ; 

Ne  let  the  woods  us  answere,   nor  our  Eccho  ring. 

134 


EDMUND  SPENSER 

And  thou,  great  Juno !    which  with  awful  might 

The  lawes  of  wedlock  still  dost  patronize ; 

And  the  religion  of  the  faith  first  plight 

With  sacred  rites  hast  taught  to  solemnize; 

And  eeke  for  comfort  often  called  art 

Of  women  in  their  smart; 

Eternally  bind  thou  this  lovely  band, 

And  all  thy  blessings  unto  us  impart. 

And  thou,  glad  Genius  !    in  whose  gentle  hand 

The  bridale  bowre  and  geniall  bed  remaine, 

Without  blemish  or  staine ; 

And  the  sweet  pleasures  of  theyr  loves  delight 

With  secret  ayde  doest  succour  and  supply, 

Till  they  bring  forth  the  fruitful!  progeny  ; 

Send  us  the  timely  fruit  of  this  same  night. 

And  thou,   fayre  Hebe !    and  thou,   Hymen  free  ! 

Grant  that  it  may  so  be. 

Til  which  we  cease  your  further  prayse  to  sing  ; 

Ne  any  woods  shall  answer,  nor  your  Eccho  ring. 

And  ye  high  heavens,  the  temple  of  the  gods, 

In  which  a  thousand  torches  flaming  bright 

Doe  burne,   that  to  us  wretched  earthly  clods 

In  dreadful  darknesse  lend  desired  light ; 

And  all  ye  powers  which  in  the  same  remayne, 

More  then  we  men  can  fayne ! 

Poure  out  your  blessing  on  us  plentiously, 

And  happy  influence  upon  us  raine, 

That  we  may  raise  a  large  posterity, 

Which  from  the  earth,  which  they  may  long  possesse 

With  lasting  happinesse, 

Up  to  your  haughty  pallaces  may  mount; 

And,   for  the  guerdon  of  theyr  glorious  merit, 


EDMUND  SPENSER 

May  heavenly  tabernacles  there  inherit, 

Of  blessed  Saints  for  to  increase  the  count. 

So  let  us  rest,  sweet  love,  in  hope  of  this, 

And  cease  till  then  our  tymely  joyes  to  sing: 

The  woods  no  more  us  answer,  nor  our  eccho  ring? 

Song  !    made  in  lieu  of  many  ornaments, 

With  which  my  love  should  duly  have  been  dect, 

Which  cutting  of  through  hasty  accidents, 

Te  would  not  stay  your  de-w  time  to  expect, 

But  promts t  both  to  recomfens; 

Be  unto  her  a  goodly  ornament, 

And  for  short  time  an  endlesse  moniment. 

8$.  From    '  Daphnciida* 

An   Elegy 

SHE  fell  away  in  her  first  ages  spring, 
Whil'st  yet  her  leafe  was  greene,  and  fresh  her  rinde. 
And  whil'st  her  braunch  faire  blossomes  foorth  did  bring, 
She  fell  away  against  all  course  of  kinde. 
For  age  to  dye  is  right,  but  youth  is  wrong; 
She  fel  away  like  fruit  blowne  downe  with  winde. 
Weepe,   Shepheard !    weepe,  to  make  my  undersong. 

Yet  fell  she  not  as  one  enforst  to  dye, 
Ne  dyde  with  dread  and  grudging  discontent, 
But  as  one  toyld  with  travaile  downe  doth  lye, 
So  lay  she  downe,   as  if  to  sleepe  she  went, 
And  closde  her  eyes  with  carelesse  quietnessej 
The  whiles  soft  death  away  her  spirit  hent, 
And  soule  assoyld  from  sinfull  fleshlinesse. 
126 


EDMUND  SPENSER 

How  happie  was  I  when  I  saw  her  leade 
The  Shepheards  daughters  dauncing  in  a  rownd ! 
How  trimly  would  she  trace  and  softly  tread 
The  tender  grasse,  with  rosie  garland  crownd  I 
And  when  she  list  advance  her  heavenly  voyce, 
Both  Nymphes  and  Muses  nigh  she  made  astownd, 
And  flocks  and  shepheards  caused  to  rejoyce. 

But  now,   ye  Shepheard  lasses !    who  shall  lead 
Your  wandring  troupes,  or  sing  your  virelayes  ? 
Or  who  shall  dight  your  bowres,   sith  she  is  dead 
That  was  the   Lady  of  your  holy-dayes  ? 
Let  now  your  blisse  be  turned  into  bale, 
And  into  plaints  convert  your  joyous  playes, 
And  with  the  same  fill  every  hill  and  dale. 

For  I  will  walke  this  wandring  pilgrimage, 

Throughout  the  world  from  one  to  other  end, 

And  in  affliction  wast  my  better  age: 

My  bread  shall  be  the  anguish  of  my  mind, 

My  drink  the  teares  which  fro  mine  eyes  do  raine, 

My  bed  the  ground  that  hardest  I  may  finde : 

So  will  I  wilfully  increase  my  paine. 

Ne  sleepe  (the  harbenger  of  wearie  wights) 
Shall  ever  lodge  upon  mine  ey-lids  more ; 
Ne  shall  with  rest  refresh  my  fainting  sprights, 
Nor  failing  force  to  former  strength  restore : 
But  I  will  wake  and  sorrow  all  the  night 
With  Philumene,   my  fortune  to  deplore ; 
With  Philumene,  the  partner  of  my  plight. 

And  ever  as  I  see  the  starres  to  fall, 

And  under  ground  to  goe  to  give  them  light 

127 


EDMUND  SPENSER 

Which  dwell  in  darknes,   I  to  minde  will  call 
How  my  fair  Starre  (that  shinde  on  me  so  bright) 
Fell  sodainly  and  faded  under  ground ; 
Since  whose  departure,  day  is  turnd  to  night, 
And  night  without  a  Venus  starre  is  found. 

And  she,  my  love  that  was,  my  Saint  that  is, 
When  she  beholds  from  her  celestiall  throne 
(In  which  shee  joyeth  in  eternall  blis) 
My  bitter  penance,  will  my  case  bemone, 
And  pitie  me  that  living  thus  doo  die ; 
For  heavenly  spirits  have  compassion 
On  mortall  men,  and  rue  their  miserie. 

So  when  I  have  with  sorowe  satisfide 
TV  importune  fates,   which  vengeance  on  me  seeke, 
And  th'  heavens  with  long  languor  pacifide, 
She,  for  pure  pitie  of  my  sufferance  meeke, 
Will  send  for  me ;    for  which  I   daylie  long : 
And  will  till  then  my  painful  penance  eeke. 
Weep,  Shepheard !    weep,  to  make  my  undersong ! 


84.  Easter 

\j(  OST  glorious  Lord  of  Lyfe !    that,  on  this  day. 
•*•          Didst  make  Thy  triumph  over  death  and  sin ; 
And,  having  harrowd  hell,  didst  bring  away 
Captivity  thence  captive,  us  to  win : 
This  joyous  day,  deare  Lord,   with  joy  begin ; 
And  grant  that  we,   for  whom  thou  diddest  dye, 
Being  with  Thy  deare  blood  clene  washt  from  sin. 
May  live  for  ever  in  felicity ! 


EDMUND  SPENSER 

And  that  Thy  love  we  weighing  worthily, 
May  likewise  love  Thee  for  the  same  againe; 
And  for  Thy  sake,  that  all  lyke  deare  didst  buy, 
With  love  may  one  another  entertayne  ! 

So  let  us  love,  deare  Love,  lyke  as  we  ought, 
— Love  is  the  lesson  which  the  Lord  us  taught. 


JOHN   LYLY 

Cards  and  Kisses 

1553-1606 

/"^UPID  and  my  Campaspe  play'd 
^-<l      At  cards  for  kisses — Cupid  paid: 
He  stakes  his  quiver,   bow,  and  arrows, 
His  mother's  doves,  and  team  of  sparrows; 
Loses  them  too;    then  down  he  throws 
The  coral  of  his  lip,  the  rose 
Growing  on's  cheek  (but  none  knows  how)} 
With  these,  the  crystal  of  his  brow, 
And  then  the  dimple  of  his  chin: 
All  these  did  my  Campaspe  win. 
At  last  he  set  her  both  his  eyes — 
She  won,   and  Cupid  blind  did  rise. 

O   Love !     has  she  done  this  for  thee  ? 

What  shall,  alas !    become  of  me  ? 


86.  Springs  Welcome 

HAT  bird  so  sings,  yet  so  does  wail  ? 

O  'tis  the  ravish'd  nightingale. 
A?>  jugi  jugi  Jug,  tereu  •    she  cries, 
And  still  her  woes  at  midnight  rise. 


JOHN  LYLY 

Brave  prick-song  1     Who  is't  now  we  hear  ? 
None  but  the  lark  so  shrill  and  clear; 
Now  at  heaven's  gate  she  claps  her  wings, 
The  morn  not  waking  till  she  sings. 
Hark,   hark,  with  what  a  pretty  throat 
Poor  robin  redbreast  tunes  his  note ! 
Hark  how  the  jolly  cuckoos  sing 
Cuckoo  !    to  welcome  in  the  spring ! 
Cuckoo !    to  welcome  in  the  spring  I 


ANTHONY  MUNDAY 
87.  Beauty  Bathing 

I553- 

BEAUTY  sat  bathing  by  a  spring, 
Where  fairest  shades  did  hide  her; 
The  winds  blew  calm,   the  birds  did  sing, 

The  cool  streams  ran  beside  her. 
My  wanton  thoughts  enticed  mine  eye 

To  see  what  was  forbidden : 
But  better  memory  said  Fie; 
So  vain  desire  was  chidden — 

Hey  nonny  nonny  O  ! 
Hey  nonny  nonny ! 

Into  a  slumber  then  I  fell, 

And  fond  imagination 
Seemed  to  see,  but  could  not  tell, 

Her  feature  or  her  fashion : 
But  ev'n  as  babes  in  dreams  do  smile, 

And  sometimes  fall  a-weeping, 
So  I  awaked  as  wise  that  while 

As  when  I  fell  a-sleeping. 
130 


SIR    PHILIP   SIDNEY 

S8.  The  Bargain 

1554-86 

AT Y   crue  love  hath  my  heart,   and  I  have  his, 
•*•  By  just  exchange  one  for  another  given: 

I  hold  his  dear,   and  mine  he  cannot  miss, 
There  never  was  a  better  bargain  driven  : 

My  true  love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 

His  heart  in  me  keeps  him  and  me  in  one, 

My  heart  in  him  his  thoughts  and  senses  guides: 

He  loves  my  heart,  for  once  it  was  his  own, 
I   cherish  his  because  in  me  it  bides : 

My  true  love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 

8  p.  Song 

O  hath  his  fancy  pleased 
With  fruits  of  happy  sight, 
Let  here  his  eyes  be  raised 

On  Nature's  sweetest  light ; 
A  light  which  doth  dissever 

And  yet  unite  the  eyes, 

A  light  which,  dying  never. 

Is  cause  the  looker  dies. 

She  never  dies,   but  lasteth 

In  life  of  lover's  heart ; 
He  ever  dies  that  wasteth 

In  love  his  chiefest  part: 
Thus  is  her  life  still  guarded 

In  never-dying  faith  ; 
Thus  is  his  death  rewarded, 

Since  she  lives  in  his  death. 


SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY 

Look  then,  and  die !     The  pleasure 

Doth  answer  well  the  pain : 
Small  loss  of  mortal  treasure, 

Who  may  immortal  gain  ! 
Immortal  be  her  graces, 

Immortal  is  her  mind  ; 
They,  fit  for  heavenly  places — 

This,   heaven  in  it  doth  bind. 
But  eyes  these  beauties  see  not, 

Nor  sense  that  grace  descries; 
Yet  eyes  deprived  be  not 

From  sight  of  her  fair  eyes — 
Which,  as  of  inward  glory 

They  are  the  outward  seal, 
So  may  they  live  still  sorry, 

Which  die  not  in  that  weal. 

But  who  hath  fancies  pleased 
With  fruits  of  happy  sight, 

Let  here  his  eyes  be  raised 
On  Nature's  sweetest  light ! 

go.  yokes  at  the  Window 

'HO  is  it  that,   this  dark  night, 

Underneath  my   window  platneth  '? 
It  is  one  who  from  thy  sight 
Being,  ah,  exiled,   disdaineth 
Every  other  vulgar  light. 

Why,   alas,   and  are  you  he  ? 

Be  not  yet   those  fancies  changed  ? 
Dear,   when  you  find  change  in  me, 

Though  from  me  you  be  estranged, 
Let  my  change  to  ruin  be. 


SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY 

Well^   in  absence  this  'will  die  : 

Leave  to  see,   and  leave  to  wonder. 

Absence  sure  will  help,   if  I 

Can  learn  how  myself  to  sunder 

From  what  in  my  heart  doth  lie. 

But  time  'will  these  thoughts  remove  ; 

Time  doth  work  <what  no  man  knoweth. 
Time  doth  as  the  subject  prove : 

With  time  still  the  affection  groweth 
In  the  faithful  turtle-dove. 

What  if  you  new  beauties  see  ? 

Will  not  they   stir  new  affection  ? 
I   will  think  they  pictures  be 

(Image-like,  of  saints'  perfection) 
Poorly  counterfeiting  thee. 

But  your  reason ' s  purest  light 

Bids  you  leave  such  minds  to  nourish* 

Dear,  do  reason  no  such  spite ! 
Never  doth  thy  beauty  flourish 

More  than  in  my  reason's  sight. 

91.  Thilomela, 

"THE  Nightingale,  as  soon  as  April  bringeth 
•*•      Unto  her  rested  sense  a  perfect  waking, 
While  late-bare  Earth,  proud  of  new  clothing,   springeth. 
Sings  out  her  woes,  a  thorn  her  song-book  making; 
And  mournfully  bewailing, 
Her  throat  in  tunes  expresseth 
What  grief  her  breast  oppresseth, 
For  Tereus'  force  on  her  chaste  will  prevailing. 
go.  leave]  cease. 


SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY 

0  Philomela  fair,   0  take  some  gladness 

That  here  is  juster  cause  of  pla'mtful  sadness  ! 

Thine  earth  no<w  springs,   mine  fadeth ; 
Thy  thorn  without,   my  thorn  my  heart  invadeth. 

Alas  !    she  hath  no  other  cause  of  anguish 

But  Tereus'  love,  on  her  by  strong  hand  wroken ; 
Wherein  she  suffering,  all  her  spirits  languish, 
Full  womanlike  complains  her  will  was  broken 
But  1,  who,   daily  craving, 
Cannot  have  to  content  me, 
Have  more  cause  to  lament  me, 
Since  wanting  is  more  woe  than  too  much  having. 

0  Philomela  fair,   0  take  some  gladness 

That  here  is  juster  cause  of  plaintful  sadness  / 

Thine  earth  now  springs,    mine  fadeth  ; 
Thy  thorn  without,   my  thorn  my  heart  invadeth. 

92.  The  Highway 

T_J  IGHWAY,  since  you  my  chief  Parnassus  be, 

-*•  •*•      And  that  my  Muse,   to  some  ears  not  unsweet 

Tempers  her  words  to  trampling  horses'  feet 

More  oft  than  to  a  chamber-melody, — 

Now  blessed  you  bear  onward  blessed  me 

To  her,  where  I  my  heart,   safe-left,   shall  meet  5 

My  Muse  and  I  must  you  of  duty  greet 

With  thanks  and  wishes,  wishing  thankfully ; 

Be  you  still  fair,   honour'd  by  public  heed ; 

By  no  encroachment  wrong'd,   nor  time  forgot ; 

Nor  blamed  for  blood,   nor  shamed  for  sinful  deed  j 

And  that  you  know  I  envy  you  no  lot 

Of  highest  wish,   I  wish  you  so  much  bliss, 
Hundreds  of  years  you  Stella's  feet  may  kiss! 


SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY 
93.  His  Lady's  Cruelty 

YWTTH  how  sad  steps,  O  moon,  thou  climb'st  the  skies !' 

**       How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face! 
What!    may  it  be  that  even  in  heavenly  place 
That  busy  archer  his  sharp  arrows  tries? 
Sure,  if  that  long-with-love-acquainted  eyes 
Can  judge  of  love,   thou  feel'st  a  lover's  case: 
I  read  it  in  thy  looks ;    thy  languish'd  grace 
To  me,  that  feel  the  like,   thy  state  descries. 
Then,  even  of  fellowship,   O  Moon,  tell  me, 
Is  constant  love  deem'd  there  but  want  of  wit  ? 
Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they  be? 
Do  they  above  love  to  be  loved,   and  yet 

Those  lovers  scorn  whom  that  love  doth  possess? 

Do  they  call   '  virtue '  there — ungratefulness  ? 

P4.  Sleep 

/^OME,  Sleep;    O  Sleep!    the  certain  knot  of  peace, 
^"^     The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe, 
The  poor  man's  wealth,   the  prisoner's  release, 
Th'  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and  low ; 
With  shield  of  proof  shield  me  from  out  the  prease 
Of  those  fierce  darts  Despair  at  me  doth  throw : 

0  make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease ; 

1  will  good  tribute  pay,   if  thou  do  so. 

Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,   sweetest  bed, 

A  chamber  deaf  to  noise  and  blind  of  light, 

A  rosy  garland  and  a  weary  head ; 

And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  by  right, 
Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,   thou  shalt  in  me, 
Livelier  than  elsewhere,   Stella's  image  see. 

94.  prease]  press. 

135 


SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY 
p)-.    Splendidis  kngum  wledico 

T   EAVE  me,  O  Love,  which  reachest  but  to  dust, 
•*-'     And  thou,   my  mind,   aspire  to  higher  things! 
Grow  rich  in  that  which  never  taketh  rust : 
Whatever  fades,  but  fading  pleasure  brings. 
Draw  in  thy  beams,  and  humble  all  thy  might 
To  that  sweet  yoke  where  lasting  freedoms  be ; 
Which  breaks  the  clouds  and  opens  forth  the  light 
That  doth  both  shine  and  give  us  sight  to  see. 
O  take  fast  hold!    let  that  light  be  thy  guide 
In  this  small  course  which  birth  draws  out  to  death, 
And  think  how  evil  becometh  him  to  slide 
Who  seeketh  Heaven,  and  comes  of  heavenly  breath. 
Then  farewell,  world!    thy  uttermost  I   see: 
Eternal  Love,   maintain  thy  life  in  me ! 

FULKE  GREVILLE,  LORD  BROOKE 

96.  Myra 

1554-1628 

WITH  whose  colours  Myra  dress'd  her  head, 
J      I,  that  ware  posies  of  her  own  hand-making, 
I,  that  mine  own  name  in  the  chimneys  read 

By  Myra  finely  wrought  ere  I  was  waking  : 
Must  I  look  on,   in  hope  time  coming  may 
With  change  bring  back  my  turn  again  to  play  ? 

I,  that  on  Sunday  at  the  church-stile  found 

A  garland  sweet  with  true-love-knots  in  flowers, 
Which  I  to  wear  about  mine  arms  was  bound 

That  each  of  us  might  know  that  all  was  ours : 
Must  I  lead  now  an  idle  life  in  wishes, 
And  follow  Cupid  for  his  loaves  and  fishes? 
96.  chimneys]  cheminies,  chimney-screens  of  tapestry  work. 


LORD  BROOKE 

I,  that  did  wear  the  ring  her  mother  left, 
I,   for  whose  love  she  gloried  to  be  blamed, 

I,   with  whose  eyes  her  eyes  committed  theft, 

I,  who  did  make  her  blush  when  I  was  named : 

Must  I  lose  ring,   flowers,  blush,  theft,  and  go  naked, 

Watching  with  sighs  till  dead  love  be  awaked? 

Was  it  for  this  that  I  might  Myra  see 

Washing  the  water  with  her  beauty's  white? 

Yet  would  she  never  write  her  love  to  me. 

Thinks  wit  of  change  when  thoughts  are  in  delight  ? 

Mad  girls  may  safely  love  as  they  may  leave  ; 

No  man  can  print  a  kiss:    lines  may  deceive. 


THOMAS   LODGE 

p/.  Rosalind 's  Madrigal 

1556?- 1625 
T   OVE  in  my  bosom  like  a  bee 

*~*        Doth  suck  his  sweet: 

Now  with  his  wings  he  plays  with  me, 

Now  with  his  feet. 
Within  mine  eyes  he  makes  his  nest, 
His  bed  amidst  my  tender  breast; 
My  kisses  are  his  daily  feast, 
And  yet  he  robs  me  of  my  rest : 

Ah  !    wanton,  will  ye  ? 

And  if  I  sleep,  then  percheth  he 

With  pretty  flight, 
And  makes  his  pillow  of  my  knee 

The  livelong  night. 
96.  deceive]  betray. 


THOMAS  LODGE 

Strike  I  my  lute,  he  tunes  the  string} 
He  music  plays  if  so  I  sing  -, 
He  lends  me  every  lovely  thing, 
Yet  cruel  he  my  heart  doth  sting: 
Whist,  wanton,  still  ye ! 

Else  I  with  roses  every  day 

Will  whip  you  hence, 
And  bind  you,  when  you  long  to  play, 

For  your  offence. 

I'll  shut  mine  eyes  to  keep  you  in  ; 
I'll  make  you  fast  it  for  your  sin ; 
I'll  count  your  power  not  worth  a  pin. 
— Alas !    what  hereby  shall  I  win 

If  he  gainsay  me  ? 

What  if  I  beat  the  wanton  boy 

With  many  a  rod  ? 
He  will  repay  me  with  annoy, 

Because  a  god. 

Then  sit  thou  safely  on  my  knee ; 
Then  let  thy  bower  my  bosom  be  ; 
Lurk  in  mine  eyes,  I  like  of  thee; 
O  Cupid,  so  thou  pity  me, 

Spare  not,  but  play  thec ! 

98.  Thttlis    i 

M  Y  Phillis  hath  the  morning  sun 

At  first  to  look  upon  her; 
And  Phillis  hath  morn-waking  birds 

Her  risings  still  to  honour. 
My  Phillis  hath  prime-feather'd  flowers, 

That  smile  when  she  treads  on  them} 
138 


THOMAS  LODGE 

And  Phillis  hath  a  gallant  flock, 

That  leaps  since  she  doth  own  them. 

But  Phillis  hath  too  hard  a  heart, 
Alas  that  she  should  have  it! 

It  yields  no  mercy  to  desert, 

Nor  grace  to  those  that  crave  it. 


Thillzs    2 


T   OVE  guards  the  roses  of  thy  lips 

And  flies  about  them  like  a  bee; 
If  I  approach  he  forward  skips, 
And  if  I  kiss  he  stingeth  me. 

Love  in  thine  eyes  doth  build  his  bower, 
And  sleeps  within  their  pretty  shine  ; 

And  if  I  look  the  boy  will  lower, 

And  from  their  orbs  shoot  shafts  divine. 

Love  works  thy  heart  within  his  fire, 
And  in  my  tears  doth  firm  the  same; 

And  if  I  tempt  it  will  retire, 

And  of  my  plaints  doth  make  a  game. 

Love,   let  me  cull  her  choicest  flowers; 

And  pity  me,   and  calm  her  eye; 
Make  soft  her  heart,  dissolve  her  lowers  ; 

Then  will  I  praise  thy  deity. 

But  if  thou  do  not,   Love,   I'll  truly  serve  her 
In  spite  of  thee,  and  by  firm  faith  deserve  her. 

'39 


THOMAS  LODGE 

100.  Rosaline 

LIKE  to  the  clear  in  highest  sphere 
Where  all  imperial  glory  shines, 
Of  selfsame  colour  is  her  hair 
Whether  unfolded  or  in  twines: 

Heigh  ho,   fair  Rosaline ! 
Her  eyes  are  sapphires  set  in  snow, 

Resembling  heaven  by  every  wink ; 
The  gods  do  fear  whenas  they  glow, 
And  I  do  tremble  when  I  think 

Heigh  ho,  would  she  were  mine ! 

Her  cheeks  are  like  the  blushing  cloud 

That  beautifies  Aurora's  face, 
Or  like  the  silver  crimson  shroud 

That  Phcebus'  smiling  looks  doth  grace ; 

Heigh  ho,   fair  Rosaline ! 
Her  lips  are  like  two  budded  roses 

Whom  ranks  of  lilies  neighbour  nigh, 
Within  whose  bounds  she  balm  encloses 

Apt  to  entice  a  deity : 

Heigh  ho,   would  she  were  mine! 

Her  neck  like  to  a  stately  tower 

Where  Love  himself  imprison'd  lies, 
To  watch  for  glances  every  hour 

From  her  divine  and  sacred  eyes : 

Heigh  ho,   fair  Rosaline  ! 
Her  paps  are  centres  of  delight, 

Her  breasts  are  orbs  of  heavenly  frame, 
Where  Nature  moulds  the  dew  of  light 

To  feed  perfection  with  the  same : 

Heigh  ho,   would  she  were  minel 

140 


THOMAS  LODGE 

With  orient  pearl,  with  ruby  red, 

With  marble  white,  with  sapphire  blue, 
Her  body  every  way  is  fed, 

Yet  soft  to  touch  and  sweet  in  view: 

Heigh  ho,  fair  Rosaline ! 
Nature  herself  her  shape  admires  ; 

The  gods  are  wounded  in  her  sight; 
And  Love  forsakes  his  heavenly  fires 

And  at  her  eyes  his  brand  doth  light: 
Heigh  ho,   would  she  were  mine! 
Then  muse  not,   Nymphs,   though  I   bemoan 

The  absence  of  fair  Rosaline, 
Since  for  a  fair  there 's  fairer  none, 

Nor  for  her  virtues  so  divine : 
Heigh  ho,   fair  Rosaline  ! 
Heigh  ho,  my  heart !   would  God  that  she  were  mine 

GEORGE   PEELE 
lot.  Fair  and  Fair 

(Enone.    T^AIR  and  fair,  and  twice  so  fair, 

As  fair  as  any  may  be ; 
The  fairest  shepherd  on  our  green, 

A  love  for  any  lady. 
Paris.   Fair  and  fair,  and  twice  so  fair, 

As  fair  as  any  may  be ; 
Thy  love  is  fair  for  thee  alone, 

And  for  no  other  lady. 
(Enone.  My  love  is  fair,   my  love  is  gay, 

As  fresh  as  bin  the  flowers  in  May, 
And  of  my  love  my  roundelay, 
My  merry,  merry,  merry  roundelay, 


GEORGE  PEELE 

Concludes  with  Cupid's  curse, — 
'They  that  do  change  old  love  for  new 

Pray  gods  they  change  for  worse !  ' 
Amlo  Simul.   They  that  do  change  old  love  for  new, 
Pray  gods  they  change  for  worse! 

(Enonr.   Fair  and  fair,  etc. 
Paris.   Fair  and  fair,  etc. 

Thy  love  is  fair.   etc. 

(Enone.  My  love  can  pipe,  my  love  can  sing, 
My  love  can  many  a  pretty  thing, 
And  of  his  lovely  praises  ring 
My  merry,  merry,  merry  roundelays 

Amen  to  Cupid's  curse, — 
'They  that  do  change,'  etc. 
Pans.  They  that  do  change,  etc. 
Ambo.   Fair  and  fair,  etc. 

/02.  A  Farewell  to  Arms 

(TO  QUEEN  ELIZABETH) 

T  I  IS  golden  locks  Time  hath  to  silver  turn'd ; 
*•  •*      O  Time  too  swift,   O  swiftness  never  ceasing  ! 
His  youth  'gainst  time  and  age  hath  ever  spurn'd, 

But  spurn'd  in  vain ;  youth  waneth  by  increasing : 
Beauty,  strength,  youth,  are  flowers  but  fading  seen ; 
Duty,  faith,  love,  are  roots,  and  ever  green. 

His  helmet  now  shall  make  a  hive  for  bees ; 

And,  lovers'  sonnets  turn'd  to  holy  psalms, 
A  man-at-arms  must  now  serve  on  his  knees, 

And  feed  on  prayers,  which  are  Age  his  alms  : 
But  though  from  court  to  cottage  he  depart, 
His  Saint  is  sure  of  his  unspotted  heart. 


GEORGE  PEELE 

And  when  he  saddest  sits  in  homely  cell, 

He'll  teach  his  swains  this  carol  for  a  song, — 

'Blest  be  the  hearts  that  wish  my  sovereign  well, 
Curst  be  the  souls  that  think  her  any  wrong.' 

Goddess,  allow  this  aged  man  his  right 

To  be  your  beadsman  now  that  was  your  knight. 


ROBERT  GREENE 

0).  Samela 

1560-92 

T   IKE  to  Diana  in  her  summer  weed, 
"••"'      Girt  with  a  crimson  robe  of  brightest  dye, 

Goes  fair  Samela. 

Whiter  than  be  the  flocks  that  straggling  feed 
When  wash'd  by  Arethusa  faint  they  lie, 

Is  fair  Samela. 
As  fair  Aurora  in  her  morning  grey, 

Deck'd  with  the  ruddy  glister  of  her  love 

Is  fair  Samela  ; 
Like  lovely  Thetis  on  a  calmed  day 

Whenas  her  brightness  Neptune's  fancy  move, 
Shines  fair  Samela. 

Her  tresses  gold,  her  eyes  like  glassy  streams, 
Her  teeth  are  pearl,   the  breasts  are  ivory 

Of  fair  Samela ; 

Her  cheeks  like  rose  and  lily  yield  forth  gleams ; 
Her  brows  bright  arches  framed  of  ebony. 

Thus  fair  Samela 

Passeth  fair  Venus  in  her  bravest  hue, 
And  Juno  in  the  show  of  majesty 
(For  she's  Samela !), 

»43 


ROBERT  GREENE 

Pallas  in  wit, — all  three,   if  you  well  view, 
For  beauty,  wit,  and  matchless  dignity, 
Yield  to  Samela. 


104.  Fawnia 

AH !    were  she  pitiful  as  she  is  fair, 
•**•     Or  but  as  mild  as  she  is  seeming  so, 
Then  were  my  hopes  greater  than  my  despair, 
Then  all  the  world  were  heaven,   nothing  woe. 
Ah!    were  her  heart  relenting  as  her  hand, 
That  seems  to  melt  even  with  the  mildest  touch, 
Then  knew  I  where  to  seat  me  in  a  land 
Under  wide  heavens,  but  yet  there  is  not  such. 
So  as  she  shows  she  seems  the  budding  rose, 
Yet  sweeter  far  than  is  an  earthly  flower  ; 
Sovran  of  beauty,   like  the  spray  she  grows ; 
Compass'd  she  is  with  thorns  and  canker'd  flower. 
Yet  were  she  willing  to  be  pluck'd  and  worn, 
She  would  be  gather'd,  though  she  grew  on  thorn. 

Ah !    when  she  sings,  all  music  else  be  still, 
For  none  must  be  compared  to  her  note; 
Ne'er  breathed  such  glee  from  Philomela's  bill, 
Nor  from  the  morning-singer's  swelling  throat. 
Ah !    when  she  riseth  from  her  blissful  bed 
She  comforts  all  the  world  as  doth  the  sun, 
And  at  her  sight  the  night's  foul  vapour 's  fled ; 
When  she  is  set  the  gladsome  day  is  done. 
O  glorious  sun,  imagine  me  the  west, 
Shine  in  my  arms,  and  set  thou  in  my  breast ! 


ROBERT  GREENE 
105.  Sephestid  s  Lullaby 

"VV7EEP  not,  my  wanton,   smile  upon  my  knee  ; 
**     When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for  thee. 

Mother's  wag,  pretty  boy, 

Father's  sorrow,   father's  joy ; 

When  thy  father  first  did  see 

Such  a  boy  by  him  and  me, 

He  was  glad,   I  was  woe ; 

Fortune  changed  made  him  so, 

When  he  left  his  pretty  boy, 

Last  his  sorrow,   first  his  joy. 
Weep  not,  my  wanton,   smile  upon  my  knee ; 
When  thou  art  old  there 's  grief  enough  for  thee. 

Streaming  tears  that  never  stint, 

Like  pearl-drops  from  a  flint, 

Fell  by  course  from  his  eyes, 

That  one  another's  place  supplies; 

Thus  he  grieved  in  every  part, 

Tears  of  blood  fell  from  his  heart, 

When  he  left  his  pretty  boy, 

Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy. 
Weep  not,  my  wanton,   smile  upon  my  knee ; 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for  thee. 

The  wanton  smiled,   father  wept, 

Mother  cried,   baby  leapt; 

More  he  crow'd,   more  we  cried, 

Nature  could  not  sorrow  hide : 

He  must  go,   he  must  kiss 

Child  and  mother,  baby  bliss, 

For  he  left  his  pretty  boy, 

Father's  sorrow,   father's  joy. 
Weep  not,  my  wanton,   smile  upon  my  knee, 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for  thee. 

«45 


ALEXANDER  HUME 
106.  Si  Summer 


1560-1609 

O  PERFECT  Light,  which  shaid  away 
The  darkness  from  the  light, 
And  set  a  ruler  o'er  the  day, 
Another  o'er  the  night  — 

Thy  glory,  when  the  day  forth  flies, 

More  vively  doth  appear 
Than  at  mid  day  unto  our  eyes 

The  shining  sun  is  clear. 

The  shadow  of  the  earth  anon 

Removes  and  drawis  by, 
While  in  the   East,   when  it  is  gone, 

Appears  a  clearer  sky. 

Which  soon  perceive  the  little  larks, 

The  lapwing  and  the  snipe, 
And  tune  their  songs,  like  Nature's  clerks, 

O'er  meadow,  muir,   and  stripe. 

Our  hemisphere  is  polisht  clean, 

And  lighten'd  more  and  more, 
While  everything  is  clearly  seen 

Which  seemit  dim  before  : 

Except  the  glistering  astres  bright, 

Which  all  the  night  were  clear, 
Offuskit  with  a  greater  light 

No  longer  do  appear. 

shaid]  parted.  stripe]  rill.  oftuskit]  darkened. 

146 


ALEXANDER  HUME 

The  golden  globe  incontinent 

Sets  up  his  shining  head, 
And  o'er  the  earth  and  firmament 

Displays  his  beams  abread. 

For  joy  the  birds  with  boulden  throats 

Against  his  visage  sheen 
Take  up  their  kindly  musick   notes 

In  woods  and  gardens  green. 

The  dew  upon  the  tender  crops, 

Like  pearlis  white  and  round, 
Or  like  to  melted  silver  drops, 

Refreshis  all  the  ground. 

The  misty  reek,  the  clouds  of  rain, 

From  tops  of  mountains  skails, 
Clear  are  the  highest  hills  and  plain. 

The  vapours  take  the  vales. 

The  ample  heaven  of  fabrick  sure 

In  cleanness  does  surpass 
The  crystal  and  the  silver  pure, 

Or  clearest  polisht  glass. 

The  time  so  tranquil  is  and  still 

That  nowhere  shall  ye  find, 
Save  on  a  high  and  barren  hill, 

An  air  of  peeping  wind. 

All  trees  and  simples,  great  and  small, 

That  balmy  leaf  do  bear, 
Than  they  were  painted  on  a  wall 

No  more  they  move  or  steir. 

boulden]  swollen.         sheen]  bright.         skails]  clears         simples] 
Ltrbs. 


ALEXANDER  HUME 

Calm  is  the  deep  and  purple  sea, 
Yea,  smoother  than  the  sand ; 

The  waves  that  weltering  wont  to  be 
Are  stable  like  the  land. 

So  silent  is  the  cessile  air 

That  every  cry  and  call 
The  hills  and  dales  and  forest  fair 

Again  repeats  them  all. 

The  flourishes  and  fragrant  flowers, 
Through  Phoebus'  fostering  heat, 

Refresht  with  dew  and  silver  showers 
Cast  up  an  odour  sweet. 

The  cloggit  busy  humming  bees, 

That  never  think  to  drone, 
On  flowers  and  flourishes  of  trees 
Collect  their  liquor  brown. 

The  Sun,  most  like  a  speedy  post 
With  ardent  course  ascends ; 

The  beauty  of  the  heavenly  host 
Up  to  our  zenith  tends. 

The  burning  beams  down  from  his  face 

So  fervently  can  beat, 
That  man  and  beast  now  seek  a  place 

To  save  them  from  the  heat. 

The  herds  beneath  some  leafy  tree 
Amidst  the  flowers  they  lie ; 

The  stable  ships  upon  the  sea 
Tend  up  their  sails  to  dry. 

cessile]  yielding,  ceasing.  flourishes]  blossoms. 

148 


ALEXANDER  HUME 

With  gilded  eyes  and  open  wings 
The  cock  his  courage  shows ; 

With  claps  of  joy  his  breast  he  dings, 
And  twenty  times  he  crows. 

The  dove  with  whistling  wings  so  blue 

The  winds  can  fast  collect ; 
Her  purple  pens  turn  many  a  hue 

Against  the  sun  direct. 

Now  noon  is  went ;  gone  is  midday, 
The  heat  doth  slake  at  last ; 

The  sun  descends  down  West  away, 
For  three  of  clock  is  past. 

The  rayons  of  the  sun  we  see 

Diminish  in  their  strength  ; 
The  shade  of  every  tower  and  tree 

Extendit  is  in  length. 

Great  is  the  calm,   for  everywhere 

The  wind  is  setting  down  ; 
The  reek  throws  right  up  in  the  air 

From  every  tower  and  town. 

The  gloming  comes;    the  day  is  spent; 

The  sun  goes  out  of  sight ; 
And  painted  is  the  Occident 

With  purple  sanguine  bright. 

Our  west  horizon  circular 

From  time  the  sun  be  set 
Is  all  with  rubies,  as  it  were, 

Or  roses  red  o'erfret. 

149 


ALEXANDER  HUME 

What  pleasure  were  to  walk  and  see, 

Endlong  a  river  clear, 
The  perfect  form  of  every  tree 

Within  the  deep  appear. 
O  then  it  were  a  seemly  thing, 

While  all  is  still  and  calm, 
The  praise  of  God  to  play  and  sing 

With  cornet  and  with  shalm  ! 
All  labourers  draw  home  at  even, 

And  can  to  other  say, 
Thanks  to  the  gracious  God  of  heaven. 

Which  sent  this  summer  day. 

GEORGE  CHAPMAN 

107-  Bridal  Song 

1560-1634 

/""\   COME,  soft  rest  of  cares !    come,   Night ! 
^^      Come,   naked  Virtue's  only  tire, 
The  reaped  harvest  of  the  light 

Bound  up  in  sheaves  of  sacred  fire. 
Love  calls  to  war: 
Sighs  his  alarms, 
Lips  his  swords  are, 

The  field  his  arms. 
Come,  Night,   and  lay  thy  velvet  hand 

On  glorious  Day's  outfacing  face ; 
And  all  thy  crowned  flames  command 
For  torches  to  our  nuptial  grace. 
Love  calls  to  war: 
Sighs  his  alarms, 
Lips  his  swords  are, 
The  field  his  arms. 


ROBERT  SOUTHWELL 

w 8.  Times  go  by  Turns 

1561-95 

r  I  'HE  lopped  tree  in  time  may  grow  again, 
•*•      Most  naked  plants  renew  both  fruit  and   flower 
The  sorest  wight  may  find  release  of  pain, 
The  driest  soil  suck  in  some  moist'ning  shower; 
Times  go  by  turns  and  chances  change  by  course, 
From  foul  to  fair,  from  better  hap  to  worse. 

The  sea  of  Fortune  doth  not  ever  flow, 
She  draws  her  favours  to  the  lowest  ebb; 
Her  time  hath  equal  times  to  come  and  go, 
Her  loom  doth  weave  the  fine  and  coarsest  webj 
No  joy  so  great  but  runneth  to  an  end, 
No  hap  so  hard  but  may  in  fine  amend. 

Not  always  fall  of  leaf  nor  ever  spring, 
No  endless  night  yet  not  eternal  day ; 
The  saddest  birds  a  seabon  find  to  sing, 
The  roughest  storm  a  calm  may  soon  allay: 
Thus  with  succeeding  turns  God  tempereth  all, 
That  man  may  hope  to  rise,  yet  fear  to  fall. 

A  chance  may  win  that  by  mischance  was  lost ; 
The  net  that  holds  no  great,  takes  little  fish ; 
In  some  things  all,  in  all  things  none  are  crost, 
Few  all  they  need,  but  none  have  all  they  wish ; 
Unmeddled  joys  here  to  no  man  befall : 
Who  least,  hath  some ;    who  most,  hath  never  all. 

unmeddlcd]  unmixed. 


ROBERT  SOUTHWELL 
wp.  The  Burning  Babe 

AS   I  in  hoary  winter's  night 
Stood  shivering  in  the  snow, 
Surprised  I  was  with  sudden  heat 

Which  made  my  heart  to  glow ; 
And  lifting  up  a  fearful  eye 

To  view  what  fire  was  near, 
A  pretty  babe  all  burning  bright 

Did  in  the  air  appear ; 
Who,  scorched  with  excessive  heat, 

Such  floods  of  tears  did  shed, 
As  though  His  floods  should  quench  His  flames, 

Which  with  His  tears  were  bred : 
'  Alas  1 '  quoth  He,    '  but  newly  born 

In  fiery  heats  I  fry, 
Yet  none  approach  to  warm  their  hearts 

Or  feel  my  fire  but  I ! 

'My  faultless  breast  the  furnace  is; 

The  fuel,   wounding  thorns ; 
Love  is  the  fire,   and  sighs  the  smoke , 

The  ashes,   shames  and  scorns; 
The  fuel  Justice  layeth  on, 

And  Mercy  blows  the  coals, 
The  metal  in  this  furnace  wrought 

Are  men's  defiled  souls : 
For  which,  as  now  on  fire  I  am 

To  work  them  to  their  good, 
So  will  I  melt  into  a  bath, 

To  wash  them  in  my  blood.' 
With  this  He  vanish'd  out  of  sight 

And  swiftly  shrunk  away, 


ROBERT  SOUTHWELL 

And  straight  I  called  unto  mind 
That  it  was  Christmas  Day. 

HENRY   CONSTABLE 
no.     On  the  "Death  of  Sir  Thilip  Sidney 

I56a?-i6i3l 

/^  IVE  pardon,   blessed  soul,   to  my  bold  cries, 
^-*      If  they,  importune,   interrupt  thy  song, 
Which  now  with  joyful  notes  thou  sing'st  among 
The  angel-quiristers  of  th'  heavenly  skies. 
Give  pardon  eke,   sweet  soul,  to  my  slow  eyes, 
That  since  I  saw  thee  now  it  is  so  long, 
And  yet  the  tears  that  unto  thee  belong 
To  thee  as  yet  they  did  not  sacrifice. 
I  did  not  know  that  thou  wert  dead  before ; 
I  did  not  feel  the  grief  I  did  sustain ; 
The  greater  stroke  astonisheth  the  more ; 
Astonishment  takes  from  us  sense  of  pain ; 
I  stood  amazed  when  others'  tears  begun, 
And  now  begin  to  weep  when  they  have  done. 

SAMUEL   DANIEL 

///.  Love  is  a  Sickness 

1561-1619 

T  OVE  is  a  sickness  full  of  woes, 
•^     All  remedies  refusing  ; 
A  plant  that  with  most  cutting  grows, 
Most  barren  with  best  using. 

Why  so? 

More  we  enjoy  it,  more  it  dies ; 

If  not  enjoy'd,  it  sighing  cries — 

Heigh  ho! 

'S3 


SAMUEL  DANIEL 

Love  is  a  torment  of  the  mind, 

A  tempest  everlasting; 
And  Jove  hath  made  it  of  a  kind 
Not  well,  nor  full  nor  fasting. 

Why  so? 

More  we  enjoy  it,  more  it  dies ; 

If  not  enjoy'd,  it  sighing  cries — 

Heigh  ho! 


in.  Ulysses  and  the  Siren 

Siren.   /^OME,  worthy  Greek!    Ulysses,   come, 
V-^      Possess  these  shores  with  me: 
The  winds  and  seas  are  troublesome, 

And  here  we  may  be  free. 
Here  may  we  sit  and  view  their  toil 

That  travail  in  the  deep, 
And  joy  the  day  in  mirth  the  while, 

And  spend  the  night  in  sleep. 

Ulysses.   Fair  Nymph,  if  fame  or  honour  were 

To  be  attain'd  with  ease, 
Then  would  I  come  and  rest  me  there, 

And  leave  such  toils  as  these. 
But  here  it  dwells,   and  here  must  I 

With  danger  seek  it  forth: 
To  spend  the  time  luxuriously 

Becomes  not  men  of  worth. 

Siren.  Ulysses,   O  be  not  deceived 

With  that  unreal  name  ; 
This  honour  is  a  thing  conceived, 

And  rests  on  others'  fame: 
>54 


SAMUEL  DANIEL 

Begotten  only  to  molest 
Our  peace,  and  to  beguile 

The  best  thing  of  our  life — our  rest, 
And  give  us  up  to  toil. 

Ulysses.  Delicious  Nymph,   suppose  there  were 

No  honour  nor  report, 
Yet  manliness  would  scorn  to  wear 

The  time  in  idle  sport: 
For  toil  doth  give  a  better  touch 

To  make  us  feel  our  joy, 
And  ease  finds  tediousness  as  much 

As  labour  yields  annoy. 

Siren.  Then  pleasure  likewise  seems  the  shore 

Whereto  tends  all  your  toil, 
Which  you  forgo  to  make  it  more, 

And  perish  oft  the  while. 
Who  may  disport  them  diversely 

Find  never  tedious  day, 
And  ease  may  have  variety 

As  well  as  action  may. 

Ulysses.   But  natures  of  the  noblest  frame 

These  toils  and  dangers  please ; 
And  they  take  comfort  in  the  same 

As  much  as  you  in  ease ; 
And  with  the  thought  of  actions  past 

Are  recreated  still : 
When  Pleasure  leaves  a  touch  at  last 

To  show  that  it  was  ill. 

Siren.  That  doth   Opinion  only  cause 
That's  out  of  Custom  bred, 
Which  makes  us  many  other  laws 
Than  ever  Nature  did. 


SAMUEL  DANIEL 

No  widows  wail  for  our  delights, 
Our  sports  are  without  blood ; 

The  world  we  see  by  warlike  wights 
Receives  more  hurt  than  good. 

Ulysses.   But  yet  the  state  of  things  require 

These  motions  of  unrest : 
And  these  great  Spirits  of  high  desire 

Seem  born  to  turn  them  best : 
To  purge  the  mischiefs  that  increase 

And  all  good  order  mar: 
For  oft  we  see  a  wicked  peace 

To  be  well  changed  for  war. 

Siren,  Well,  well,  Ulysses,   then  I   see 

I  shall  not  have  thee  here : 
And  therefore  I  will  come  to  thee, 

And  take  my  fortune  there. 
I  must  be  won,  that  cannot  win, 

Yet  lost  were  I  not  won  ; 
For  beauty  hath  created  been 

T'  undo,  or  be  undone. 

//j.          £eauty,  Time,  and  Love 
SONNETS 

i 
T^AIR  is  my  Love  and  cruel  as  she's  fair; 

Her  brow-shades  frown,  although  her  eyes  are  sunny. 
Her  smiles  are  lightning,  though  her  pride  despair, 
And  her  disdains  are  gall,  her  favours  honey : 
A  modest  maid,  deck'd  with  a  blush  of  honour, 
Whose  feet  do  tread  green  paths  of  youth  and  love ; 
The  wonder  of  all  eyes  that  look  upon  her, 
Sacred  on  earth,  design'd  a  Saint  above. 
156 


SAMUEL  DANIEL 

Chastity  and  Beauty,  which  were  deadly  foes, 

Live  reconciled  friends  within  her  brow  ; 

And  had  she  Pity  to  conjoin  with  those, 

Then  who  had  heard  the  plaints  I  utter  now? 
For  had  she  not  been  fair,  and  thus  unkind, 
My  Muse  had  slept,  and  none  had  known  my  mind. 

II 

My  spotless  love  hovers  with  purest  wings, 
About  the  temple  of  the  proudest  frame, 
Where  blaze  those  lights,  fairest  of  earthly  things, 
Which  clear  our  clouded  world  with  brightest  flame. 
My  ambitious  thoughts,   confined  in  her  face, 
Affect  no  honour  but  what  she  can  give ; 
My  hopes  do  rest  in  limits  of  her  grace; 
I  weigh  no  comfort  unless  she  relieve. 
For  she,   that  can  my  heart  imparadise, 
Holds  in  her  fairest  hand  what  dearest  is ; 
My  Fortune's  wheel 's  the  circle  of  her  eyes, 
Whose  rolling  grace  deign  once  a  turn  of  bliss. 

All  my  life's  sweet  consists  in  her  alone ; 

So  much  I  love  the  most  Unloving  one. 

in 

And  yet  I  cannot  reprehend  the  flight 
Or  blame  th'  attempt  presuming  so  to  soar; 
The  mounting  venture  for  a  high  delight 
Did  make  the  honour  of  the  fall  the  more. 
For  who  gets  wealth,  that  puts  not  from  the  shore  ? 
Danger  hath  honour,  great  designs  their  fame ; 
Glory  doth  follow,   courage  goes  before  ; 
And  though  th'  event  oft  answers  not  the  same — 
Suffice  that  high  attempts  have  never  shame. 
The  mean  observer,  whom  base  safety  keeps, 

>57 


SAMUEL  DANIEL 

Lives  without  honour,  dies  without  a  name, 

And  in  eternal  darkness  ever  sleeps. — 
And  therefore,  Delia,  'tis  to  me  no  blot 
To  have  attempted,  tho'  attain'd  thee  not. 

IV 

When  men  shall  find  thy  flow'r,  thy  glory,  pass, 
And  thou  with  careful  brow,  sitting  alone, 
Received  hast  this  message  from  thy  glass, 
That  tells  the  truth  and  says  that  All  is  gone; 
Fresh  shalt  thou  see  in  me  the  wounds  thou  mad'st, 
Though  spent  thy  flame,   in  me  the  heat  remaining: 
I  that  have  loved  thee  thus  before  thou  fad'st — 
My  faith  shall  wax,  when  thou  art  in  thy  waning. 
The  world  shall  find  this  miracle  in  me, 
That  fire  can  burn  when  all  the  matter 's  spent : 
Then  what  my  faith  hath  been  thyself  shalt  see, 
And  that  thou  wast  unkind  thou  may'st  repent. — 
Thou  may'st  repent  that  thou  hast  scorn'd  my  tears, 
When  Winter  snows  upon  thy  sable  hairs. 

v 

Beauty,  sweet  Love,  is  like  the  morning  dew, 
Whose  short  refresh  upon  the  tender  green 
Cheers  for  a  time,  but  till  the  sun  doth  show, 
And  straight  'tis  gone  as  it  had  never  been. 
Soon  doth  it  fade  that  makes  the  fairest  flourish, 
Short  is  the  glory  of  the  blushing  rose  ; 
The  hue  which  thou  so  carefully  dost  nourish, 
Yet  which  at  length  thou  must  be  forced  to  lose. 
When  thou,  surcharged  with  burthen  of  thy  years, 
Shalt  bend  thy  wrinkles  homeward  to  the  earth ; 
And  that,  in  Beauty's  Lease  expired,  appears 
The  Date  of  Age,  the  Calends  of  our  Death— 
158 


SAMUEL  DANIEL 

But  ah,   no  more ! — this  must  not  be  foretold, 
For  women  grieve  to  think  they  must  be  old. 

VI 

I  must  not  grieve  my  Love,  whose  eyes  would  read 
Lines  of  delight,  whereon  her  youth  might  smile; 
Flowers  have  time  before  they  come  to  seed, 
And  she  is  young,  and   now  must  sport  the  while. 
And  sport,   Sweet  Maid,   in  season  of  these  years, 
And  learn  to  gather  flowers  before  they  wither ; 
And  where  the  sweetest  blossom  first  appears, 
Let  Love  and  Youth  conduct  thy  pleasures  thither, 
Lighten  forth  smiles  to  clear  the  clouded  air, 
And  calm  the  tempest  which  my  sighs  do  raise ; 
Pity  and  smiles  do  best  become  the  fair ; 
Pity  and  smiles  must  only  yield  thee  praise. 
Make  me  to  say  when  all  my  griefs  are  gone, 
Happy  the  heart  that  sighed  for  such  a  one ! 

VII 

Let  others  sing  of  Knights  and  Paladines 

In  aged  accents  and  untimely  words, 

Paint  shadows  in  imaginary  lines, 

Which  well  the  reach  of  their  high  wit  records: 

But  I  must  sing  of  thee,  and  those  fair  eyes 

Authentic  shall  my  verse  in  time  to  come ; 

When  yet  th'  unborn  shall  say,   Lo,   where  she  Ties ! 

Whose  beauty  made  him  speajt,   that  else  was  dumb  ! 

These  are  the  arcs,  the  trophies  I  erect, 

That  fortify  thy  name  against  old  age ; 

And  these  thy  sacred  virtues  must  protect 

Against  the  Dark,  and  Time's  consuming  rage. 
Though  th'  error  of  my  youth  in  them  appear, 
Suffice,  they  show  I  lived,  and  loved  thee  dear. 


MARK  ALEXANDER  BOYD 

HA  Sonet 

11 4'  1563-1601 

FRA  bank  to  bank,  fra  wood  to  wood  I  rin, 
Ourhailit  with  my  feeble  fantasie; 
Like  til  a  leaf  that  fallis  from  a  tree, 
Or  til  a  reed  ourblawin  with  the  win. 

Twa  gods  guides  me :    the  ane  of  tham  is  blin, 
Yea  and  a  bairn  brocht  up  in  vanitie ; 
The  next  a  wife  ingenrit  of  the  sea, 

And  lichter  nor  a  dauphin  with  her  fin. 

Unhappy  is  the  man  for  evermair 

That  tills  the  sand  and  sawis  in  the  air; 
But  twice  unhappier  is  he,   I  lairn, 
That  feidis  in  his  hairt  a  mad  desire, 
And  follows  on  a  woman  throw  the  fire, 
Led  by  a  blind  and  teachit  by  a  bairn. 


JOSHUA  SYLVESTER 

/ir.  Ubique 

•563-1618 

WERE  I  as  base  as  is  the  lowly  plain, 
And  you,  my   Love,  as  high  as  heaven  above, 
Yet  should  the  thoughts  of  me,  your  humble  swain, 
Ascend  to  heaven  in  honour  of  my  love. 
Were  I  as  high  as  heaven  above  the  plain, 
And  you,  my  Love,  as  humble  and  as  low 
As  are  the  deepest  bottoms  of  the  main, 
Wheresoe'er  you  were,  with  you  my  love  should  go. 


JOSHUA  SYLVESTER 


Were  you  the  earth,  dear  Love,  and  I  the  skies, 
My  love  should  shine  on  you  like  to  the  Sun, 
And  look  upon  you  with  ten  thousand  eyes, 
Till  heaven  wax'd  blind,  and  till  the  world  were  done. 
Wheresoe'er  I  am,— below,  or  else  above  you— 
Wheresoe'er  you  are,   my  heart  shall  truly  love  you. 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON 

n6.  To  His  Coy  Love 

"563-1631 
T    PRAY  thee,   leave,  love  me  no  more, 

Call  home  the  heart  you  gave  me! 
I  but  in  vain  that  saint  adore 

That  can  but  will  not  save  me. 
These  poor  half-kisses  kill  me  quite — 

Was  ever  man  thus  served  ? 
Amidst  an  ocean  of  delight 
For  pleasure  to  be  starved  ? 

Show  me  no  more  those  snowy  breasts 

With  azure  riverets  branched, 
Where,  whilst  mine  eye  with  plenty  feasts, 

Yet  is  my  thirst  not  stanched; 
O  Tantalus,  thy  pains  ne'er  tell ! 

By  me  thou  art  prevented: 
'Tis  nothing  to  be  plagued  in  Hell, 

But  thus  in  Heaven  tormented. 

Clip  me  no  more  in  those  dear  arms, 

Nor  thy  life's  comfort  call  me, 
O  these  are  but  too  powerful  charms, 

And  do  but  more  enthral  me  ! 

»  .61 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON 

But  see  how  patient  I  am  grown 

In  all  this  coil  about  thee: 
Come,  nice  thing,   let  my  heart  alone, 

I  cannot  live  without  thee ! 

117.  The  Parting 

OINCE  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and  part — 

^     Nay,   I  have  done,  you  get  no  more  of  me ; 

And  I  am  glad,  yea,  glad  with  all  my  heart, 

That  thus  so  cleanly  I  myself  can  free. 

Shake  hands  for  ever,  cancel  all  our  vows, 

And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again, 

Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows 

That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain. 

Now  at  the  last  gasp  of  Love's  latest  breath, 

When,  his  pulse  failing,   Passion  speechless  lies, 

When  Faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of  death, 

And  Innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes, 

— Now  if  thou  wouldst,  when  all  have  given  him  over, 
From  death  to  life  thou  might'st  him  yet  recover. 


N 


118.  Siren  a 

EAR  to  the  silver   Trent 

SIRENA  dwelleth  ; 
She  to  whom  Nature  lent 

All  that  excelleth ; 
By  which  the  Muses  late 

And  the  neat  Graces 
Have  for  their  greater  state 

Taken  their  places ; 
Twisting  an  anadem 

Wherewith  to  crown  her, 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON 

As  it  belong'd  to  them 
Most  to  renown  her. 
On  thy  bani, 
In  a  rani, 

Let  thy  swans  sing  her, 
And  with  their  music 

Along  let  them  bring  her. 
Tagus  and  Pactolus 

Are  to  thee  debtor, 
Nor  for  their  gold  to  us 

Are  they  the  better  : 
Henceforth  of  all  the  rest 

Be  thou  the  River 
Which,  as  the  daintiest, 
Puts  them  down  ever. 
For  as  my  precious  one 
O'er  thee  doth  travel, 
She  to  pearl  paragon 
Turneth  thy  gravel. 

On  thy  bank  .   .  . 
Our  mournful  Philomel, 

That  rarest  tuner, 
Henceforth  in  Aperil 

Shall  wake  the  sooner, 
And  to  her  shall  complain 

From  the  thick  cover, 
Redoubling  every  strain 

Over  and  over: 
For  when  my  Love  too  long 

Her  chamber  keepeth, 
As  though  it  suffer'd  wrong, 
The  Morning  weepeth. 

On  thy  bank  .   .  . 

163 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON 

Oft  have  I  seen  the  Sun, 

To  do  her  honour, 
Fix  himself  at  his  noon 

To  look  upon  her ; 
And  hath  gilt  every  grove, 

Every  hill  near  her, 
With  his  flames  from  above 

Striving  to  cheer  her : 
And  when  she  from  his  sight 

Hath  herself  turned, 
He,  as  it  had  been  night, 

In  clouds  hath  mourned. 

On  thy  bank  .   . 

The  verdant  meads  are  seen, 

When  she  doth  view  them, 
In  fresh  and  gallant  green 

Straight  to  renew  them ; 
And  every  little  grass 

Broad  itself  spreadeth, 
Proud  that  this  bonny  lass 

Upon  it  treaded) : 
Nor  flower  is  so  sweet 

In  this  large  cincture, 
But  it  upon  her  feet 

Leaveth  some  tincture. 

On  thy  bank  .   . 

The  fishes  in  the  flood, 
When  she  doth  angle, 

For  the  hook  strive  a-good 
Them  to  entangle ; 

And  leaping  on  the  land, 
From  the  clear  water, 
114 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON 

Their  scales  upon  the  sand 

Lavishly  scatter; 
Therewith  to  pave  the  mould 

Whereon  she  passes, 
So  herself  to  behold 

As  in  her  glasses. 

On  thy  bank  .  .  . 
When  she  looks  out  by  night, 

The  stars  stand  gazing, 
Like  comets  to  our  sight 

Fearfully  blazing  ; 
As  wond'ring  at  her  eyes 

With  their  much  brightness, 
Which  so  amaze  the  skies, 

Dimming  their  lightness. 
The  raging  tempests  are  calm 

When  she  speaketh, 
Such  most  delightsome  balm 

From  her  lips  breaketh. 

On  thy  bank  .   .   . 
In  all  our  Brittany 

There  's  not  a  fairer, 
Nor  can  you  fit  any 

Should  you  compare  her. 
Angels  her  eyelids  keep, 

All  hearts  surprising  ; 
Which  look  whilst  she  doth  sleep 

Like  the  sun's  rising: 
She  alone  of  her  kind 

Knoweth  true  measure, 
And  her  unmatched  mind 

Is  heaven's  treasure. 

On  thy  bank   .   .   . 

165 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON 

Fair  Dove  and  Dartven  clear, 

Boast  ye  your  beauties, 
To  Trent  your  mistress  here 

Yet  pay  your  duties : 
My  Love  was  higher  born 

Tow'rds  the  full  fountains, 
Yet  she  doth  moorland  scorn 

And  the  Peak  mountains  ; 
Nor  would  she  none  should  dream 

Where  she  abideth, 
Humble  as  is  the  stream 

Which  by  her  slideth. 

On  thy  bank  .   .  . 

Yet  my  poor  rustic  Muse 

Nothing  can  move  her, 

Nor  the  means  I   can  use, 

Though  her  true  lover : 

Many  a  long  winter's  night 

Have  I  waked  for  her, 
Yet  this  my  piteous  plight 

Nothing  can  stir  her. 
All  thy  sands,   silver  Trent, 

Down   to  the  Number, 
The  sighs  that  I   have  spent 
Never  can  number. 
On  thy  bank, 
In  a  rank, 

Let  thy  swans  sing  her, 
dnd  with  their  music 

Along  let  them  bring  her. 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON 


jjgincourt 

"CAIR  stood  the  wind  for  France 
•*•       When  we  our  sails  advance, 
Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 

Longer  will  tarry; 
But  putting  to  the  main, 
At  Caux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  martial  train 

Landed  King  Harry. 

And  taking  many  a  fort, 
Furnish'd  in  warlike  sort, 
Marcheth  tow'rds  Agincourt 

In  happy  hour ; 
Skirmishing  day  by  day 
With  those  that  stopp'd  his  way, 
Where  the  French  gen'ral  lay 

With  all  his  power. 

Which,   in  his  height  of  pride, 
King  Henry  to  deride, 
His  ransom  to  provide 

Unto  him  sending ; 
Which  he  neglects  the  while 
As  from  a  nation  vile, 
Yet  with  an  angry  smile 

Their  fall  portending. 

And  turning  to  his  men, 
Quoth  our  brave  Henry  then, 
'Though  they  to  one  be  ten 
Be  not  amazed  : 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON 

Yet  have  we  well  begun ; 
Battles  so  bravely  won 
Have  ever  to  the  sun 

By  fame  been  raised. 

'And  for  myself  (quoth  he) 
This  my  full  rest  shall  be: 
England  ne'er  mourn  for  me 

Nor  more  esteem  me : 
Victor  I  will  remain 
Or  on  this  earth  lie  slain, 
Never  shall  she  sustain 

Loss  to  redeem  me. 

'Poitiers  and  Cressy  tell, 

When  most  their  pride  did  swell, 

Under  our  swords  they  fell : 

No  less  our  skill  is 
Than  when  our  grandsire  great, 
Claiming  the  regal  seat, 
By  many  a  warlike  feat 

Lopp'd  the  French  lilies.' 

The  Duke  of  York  so  dread 
The  eager  vaward  led ; 
With  the  main  Henry  sped 

Among  his  henchmen. 
Excester  had  the  rear, 
A  braver  man  not  there ; 
O   Lord,  how  hot  they  were 

On  the  false  Frenchmen ! 

They  now  to  fight  are  gone, 
Armour  on  armour  shone, 
Drum  now  to  drum  did  groan, 
To  hear  was  wonder: 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON 

That  with  the  cries  they  make 
The  very  earth  did  shake : 
Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake, 
Thunder  to  thunder. 

Well  it  thine  age  became, 
O  noble  Erpingham, 
Which  didst  the  signal  aim 

To  our  hid  forces ! 
When  from  a  meadow  by, 
Like  a  storm  suddenly 
The  English  archery 

Stuck  the  French  horses. 

With  Spanish  yew  so  strong, 
Arrows  a  cloth-yard  long 
That  like  to  serpents  stung, 

Piercing  the  weather ; 
None  from  his  fellow  starts, 
But  playing  manly  parts, 
And  like  true  English  hearts 

Stuck  close  together. 

When  down  their  bows  they  threw, 
And  forth  their  bilbos  drew, 
And  on  the  French  they  flew, 

Not  one  was  tardy  ; 
Arms  were  from  shoulders  sent, 
Scalps  to  the  teeth  were  rent, 
Down  the  French  peasants  went — 

Our  men  were  hardy. 

This  while  our  noble  king, 
His  broadsword  brandishing, 

bilbos]  swords,  from  Bilboa. 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON 

Down  the  French  host  did  ding 
As  to  o'erwhelm  it ; 

And  many  a  deep  wound  lent, 

His  arms  with  blood  besprent, 

And  many  a  cruel  dent 
Bruised  his  helmet. 

Gloster,  that  duke  so  good^ 
Next  of  the  royal  blood, 
For  famous  England  stood 

With  his  brave  brother; 
Clarence,  in  steel  so  bright, 
Though  but  a  maiden  knight. 
Yet  in  that  furious  right 

Scarce  such  another. 

Warwick  in  blood  did  wade, 
Oxford  the  foe  invade, 
And  cruel  slaughter  made 

Still  as  they  ran  up  ; 
Suffolk  his  axe  did  ply, 
Beaumont  and  Willoughby 
Bare  them  right  doughtily, 

Ferrers  and  Fanhope. 

Upon  Saint  Crispin's  Day 
Fought  was  this  noble  fray, 
Which  fame  did  not  delay 

To  England  to  carry 
O  when  shall  English  men 
With  such  acts  fill  a  pen  ? 
Or  England  breed  again 

Such  a  King  Harry? 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON 

120.         To  the  Virginian  Foyage 

"V^OU  brave  heroic  minds 

Worthy  your  country's  name, 
That  honour  still  pursue ; 
Go  and  subdue ! 

Whilst  loitering  hinds 

Lurk  here  at  home  with  shame. 

Britons,  you  stay  too  long : 
Quickly  aboard  bestow  you, 
And  with  a  merry  gale 
Swell  your  stretch'd  sail 
With  vows  as  strong 

As  the  winds  that  blow  you. 

Your  course  securely  steer, 

West  and  by  south  forth  keep! 
Rocks,  lee-shores,  nor  shoals 
When   Eolus  scowls 
You  need  not  fear; 
So  absolute  the  deep. 

And  cheerfully  at  sea 
Success  you  still  entice 

To  get  the  pearl  and  gold, 
And  ours  to  hold 
Virginia, 

Earth's  only  paradise. 

Where  nature  hath  in  store 
Fowl,  venison,   and  fish, 
And  the  fruitfull'st  soil 
Without  your  toil 
Three  harvests  more, 

All  greater  than  your  wish. 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON 

And  the  ambitious  vine 

Crowns  with  his  purple  mass 
The  cedar  reaching  high 
To  kiss  the  sky, 
The  cypress,  pine, 
And  useful  sassafras. 

To  whom  the  Golden  Age 
Still  nature's  laws  doth  give, 
No  other  cares  attend, 
But  them  to  defend 
From  winter's  rage, 

That  long  there  doth  not  live. 

When  as  the  luscious  smell 
Of  that  delicious  land 

Above  the  seas  that  flows 
The  clear  wind  throws, 
Your  hearts  to  swell 

Approaching  the  dear  strand ; 

In  kenning  of  the  shore 

(Thanks  to  God  first  given) 
O  you  the  happiest  men, 
Be  frolic  then  1 
Let  cannons  roar, 

Frighting  the  wide  heaven. 

And  in  regions  far, 

Such  heroes  bring  ye  forth 

As  those  from  whom  we  came : 
And  plant  our  name 
Under  that  star 

Not  known  unto  our  North. 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON 

And  as  there  plenty  grows 
Of  laurel  everywhere — 
Apollo's  sacred  tree — 
You  it  may  see 
A  poet's  brows 

To  crown,  that  may  sing  there. 

Thy    Voyages  attend, 
Industrious  Hakluyt, 

Whose  reading  shall  inflame 
Men  to  seek  fame, 
And  much  commend 
To  after  times  thy  wit. 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE 

'21.      The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  His  Love 

•564-93 

/^^OME  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love. 
^*      And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  hills  and  valleys,  dales  and  fields. 
Or  woods  or  steepy  mountain  yields. 

And  we  will  sit  upon  the  rocks, 
And  see  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

And  I  will  make  thee  beds  of  roses 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies; 
A   cap  of  flowers,   and  a   kirtle 
Embroider'd  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle. 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull; 
Fair-lined  slippers  for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold. 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy- buds 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs : 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love. 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight  each  May  morning: 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love. 


122.  Her  Reply 

(WRITTEN  BY  SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH) 

TF  all  the  world  and  love  were  young, 

And  truth  in  every  shepherd's  tongue, 
These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  Love. 

But  Time  drives  flocks  from  field  to  fold; 
When  rivers  rage  and  rocks  grow  cold  ; 
And  Philomel  becometh  dumb ; 
The  rest  complains  of  cares  to  come. 

The  flowers  do  fade,  and  wanton  fields 
To  wayward  Winter  reckoning  yields: 
A  honey  tongue,  a  heart  of  gall, 
Is  fancy's  spring,  but  sorrow's  fall. 
174 


(SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH) 

Thy  gowns,  thy  shoes,   thy  beds  of  roses, 
Thy  cap,   thy  kirtle,   and  thy  posies, 
Soon  break,  soon  wither — soon  forgotten, 
In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten. 

Thy  belt  of  straw  and  ivy-buds, 
Thy  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs, — 
All  these  in  me  no  means  can  move 
To  come  to  thee  and  be  thy  Love. 
But  could  youth  last,   and  love  still  breed, 
Had  joys  no  date,   nor  age  no  need, 
Then  these  delights  my  mind  might  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  Love. 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

123.  Silvia 

1564-1616 
WfHO  is  Silvia?    What  is  she? 

That  all  our  swains  commend  her  ? 
Holy,   fair,   and  wise  is  she ; 

The  heaven  such  grace  did  lend  her, 
That  she  might  admired  be. 
Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair? 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness: 
Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair, 

To  help  him  of  his  blindness ; 
And,  being  help'd,  inhabits  there. 
Then  to  Silvia  let  us  sing, 

That  Silvia  is  excelling ; 
She  excels  each  mortal  thing 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling : 
To  her  let  us  garlands  bring. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


O1 


124.  The  Blossom 

,N  a  day — alack  the  day  !— 

Love,  whose  month  is  ever  May, 
Spied  a  blossom  passing  fair 
Playing  in  the  wanton  air  : 
Through  the  velvet  leaves  the  wind 
All  unseen  'gan  passage  find  ; 
That  the  lover,  sick  to  death, 
Wish'd  himself  the  heaven's  breath. 
Air,  quoth  he,  thy  cheeks  may  blow ; 
Air,  would  I  might  triumph  so  1 
But,  alack,   my  hand  is  sworn 
Ne'er  to  pluck  thee  from  thy  thorn : 
Vow,  alack,   for  youth  unmeet ; 
Youth  so  apt  to  pluck  a  sweet ! 
Do  not  call  it  sin  in  me 
That  I  am  forsworn  for  thee  ; 
Thou  for  whom  e'en  Jove  would  swear 
Juno  but  an  Ethiop  were ; 
And  deny  himself  for  Jove, 
Turning  mortal  for  thy  love. 

Spring  and  Winter 
12$.  i 

'HEN  daisies  pied  and  violets  blue, 


And  lady-smocks  all  silver-white, 
And  cuckoo-buds  of  yellow  hue 

Do  paint  the  meadows  with  delight, 
The  cuckoo  then,  on  every  tree, 
Mocks  married  men ;    for  thus  sings  he, 

Cuckoo ! 
•76 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

Cuckoo,   cuckoo! — O  word  of  fear, 
Unpleasing  to  a  married  ear ! 

When  shepherds  pipe  on  oaten  straws,   ' 
And  merry  larks  are  ploughmen's  clocks, 

When  turtles  tread,  and  rooks,  and  daws, 
And  maidens  bleach  their  summer  smocks 

The  cuckoo  then,  on  every  tree, 

Mocks  married  men ;    for  thus  sings  he, 
Cuckoo  ! 

Cuckoo,   cuckoo  ! — O  word  of  fear, 

Unpleasing  to  a  married  ear ! 

126.  a 

WfHEN  icicles  hang  by  the  wall, 

**       And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail 
And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 

And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail, 
When  blood  is  nipp'd,  and  ways  be  foul, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

To-whit ! 

To- who  ! — a  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth   keel  the  pot. 

When  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow, 

And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw, 
And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow, 

And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw, 
When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

To-whit ! 

To-who  ! — a  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 
126.  keel]  skim. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

Fairy  Land 

127.  ' 

OVER  hill,  over  dale, 
Thorough  bush,  thorough  brier, 
Over  park,  over  pale, 

Thorough  flood,   thorough  fire, 
I  do  wander  everywhere, 
Swifter  than  the  moone's  sphere; 
And  I  serve  the  fairy  queen, 
To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green : 
The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be; 
In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see ; 
Those  be  rubies,   fairy  favours, 
In  those  freckles  live  their  savours: 
I  must  go  seek  some  dew-drops  here, 
And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 

128.  it 

\^OU  spotted  snakes  with  double  tongue, 

Thorny  hedgehogs,  be  not  seen ; 
Newts  and  blind-worms,  do  no  wrong; 
Come  not  near  our  fairy  queen. 

Philomel,  with  melody, 
Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby ; 
Lulla,  lulla,  lullaby;    lulla,  lulla,  lullaby! 

Never  harm, 

Nor  spell  nor  charm, 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh ; 
So,  good  night,  with  lullaby. 

Weaving  spiders,  come  not  here ; 

Hence,   you  long-legg'd  spinners,  hence! 
.78 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

Beetles  black,  approach  not  near; 
Worm  nor  snail,  do  no  offence. 

Philomel,   with  melody, 
Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby ; 
Lulla,  lulla,   lullaby;    lulla,  lulla,  lullaby! 

Never  harm, 

Nor  spell  nor  charm, 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh; 
So,  good  night,  with  lullaby. 

129.  in 

/^OME  unto  these  yellow  sands, 

^-^     And  then  take  hands: 

Court'sied  when  you  have,  and  kiss'd,— 

The  wild  waves  whist, — 
Foot  it  featly  here  and  there ; 
And,  sweet  sprites,  the  burthen  bear. 
Hark,   hark! 

Bow,  wow, 
The  watch-dogs  bark  : 

Bow,  wow. 
Hark,   hark!    I  hear 
The  strain  of  strutting  chanticleer 
Cry,  Cock-a-diddle-dow ! 

i$o.  iv 

ERE  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I : 
In  a  cowslip's  bell  I   lie ; 
There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry. 
On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 
After  summer  merrily : 

Merrily,  merrily,   shall  I  live  now, 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 

'79 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


"CULL  fathom  five  thy  father  lies; 
*        Of  his  bones  are  coral  made ; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes: 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell : 
Ding-dong. 

Hark !    now  I  hear  them — 
Ding-dong,   bell ! 

132.  Love 

'""TELL  me  where  is  Fancy  bred, 

Or  in  the  heart  or  in  the  head? 

How  begot,  how  nourished  ? 
Reply,  reply. 

It  is  engendcr'd  in  the  eyes, 

With  gazing  fed;    and  Fancy  dies 

In  the  cradle  where  it  lies. 

Let  us  all  ring  Fancy's  knell : 
I'll  begin  it, — Ding,  dong,  bell. 
All.  Ding,  dong,  bell. 

/  3  3 .  Sweet-and-Tiventy 

f~\   MISTRESS  mine,  where  are  you  roaming  ? 
^""^      O,   stay  and  hear !    your  true  love  's  coming, 

That  Can  sing  both  high  and  low: 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  sweeting; 
Journeys  end  in  lovers  meeting, 

Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

180 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

What  is  love  ?    'tis  not  hereafter  ; 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter; 

What  's  to  come  is  still  unsure  : 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty  ; 
Then  come  kiss  me,   sweet-and-twenty  ! 

Youth  's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 


away,  come  away,  death, 
-^      And  in  sad  cypres  let  me  be  laid; 
Fly  away,   fly  away,  breath  ; 

I  am  slain  by  a  fair  cruel  maid. 
My  shroud  of  white,  stuck  all  with  yew, 

O  prepare  it  I 

My  part  of  death,   no  one  so  true 
Did  share  it. 

Not  a  flower,   not  a  flower  sweet, 

On  my  black  coffin  let  there  be  strown  ; 
Not  a  friend,  not  a  friend  greet 

My  poor  corse,   where  my  bones  shall  be  thrown  : 
A  thousand  thousand  sighs  to  save, 

Lay  me,   O,   where 
Sad  true  lover  never  find  my  grave 
To  weep  there  I 


Under  the  Greenwood  Tree 

Am'iem  sings : 

NDER  the  greenwood  tree, 

Who  loves  to  lie  with  me. 
And  turn  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
1)4.  cypres]  crape. 

181 


U 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither  ? 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun, 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun, 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats, 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither: 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Jaques  replies : 

If  it  do  come  to  pass 
That  any  man  turn  ass, 
Leaving  his  wealth  and  ease 
A  stubborn  will  to  please, 
Ducdame,  ducdame,  ducdame : 
Here  shall  he  see 
Gross  fools  as  he, 
An  if  he  will  come  to  me. 


\}6.     Blow,  blow,  thou  Winter  Wind 

DLOW,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 

As  man's  ingratitude  ; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen, 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

Heigh  ho !    sing,   heigh  ho !    unto  the  green  holly : 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,   most  loving  mere  folly: 

Then  heigh  ho,  the  holly! 

This  life  is  most  jolly. 

Freeze,   freeze,   thou  bitter  sky, 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot : 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remember'd  not. 

Heigh  ho  !    sing,  heigh  ho  !    unto  the  green  holly  i 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,   most  loving  mere  folly  i 
Then  heigh  ho,  the  holly! 
This  life  is  most  jolly. 


^7.      //  was  a  Lover  and  his  Lass 

TT  was  a  lover  and  his  lass, 

•*•      With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 

That  o'er  the  green  corn-field  did  pass, 

In  the  spring  time,   the  only  pretty  ring  time. 
When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,   ding ; 
Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 

Between  the  acres  of  the  rye, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 
These  pretty  country  folks  would  lie, 

In  the  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  ring  time, 
When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding; 
Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 

This  carol  they  began  that  hour, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

How  that  life  was  but  a  flower 

In  the  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  ring  time, 
When  birds  do  sing,   hey  ding  a  ding,  ding ; 
Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 

And,  therefore,  take  the  present  time 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 

For  love  is  crowned  with  the  prime 

In  the  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  ring  time, 

When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding ; 

Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 

138.  Take,  0  take  those  Lips  away 

""PAKE,  O  take  those  lips  away, 

That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn; 
And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day, 

Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn  ! 
But  my  kisses  bring  again, 

Bring  again  ; 

Seals  of  love,   but  seaPd  in  vain, 
Seal'd  in  vain ! 

139.  Slubacte 

LJARK!    hark!    the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

-*•      And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies ; 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes : 
With  everything  that  pretty  bin, 

My  lady  sweet,   arise ! 

Arise,  arise ! 
184 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


140.  F'tdele 


C'EAR  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun, 

Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages  ; 
Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 

Home  art  gone,   and  ta'en  thy  wages 
Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must, 
As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  the  great, 
Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke  ; 

Care  no  more  to  clothe  and  eat  ; 
To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak: 

The  sceptre,   learning,  physic,   must 

All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  lightning-flash, 
Nor  the  all-dreaded  thunder-stone; 

Fear  not  slander,   censure  rash  ; 
Thou  hast  finish'd  joy  and  moan  . 

All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 

Consign  to  thee,   and  come  to  dust. 

No  exerciser  harm  thee  ! 
Nor  no  witchcraft  charm  thee  ' 
Ghost  unlaid  forbear  thee  ! 
Nothing  ill  come  near  thee  ! 
Quiet  consummation  have  ; 
And  renowned  be  thy  grave  ! 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


141.  Bridal  Song 

D  OSES,  their  sharp  spines  being  gone, 
•"•^     Not  royal  in  their  smells  alone, 

But  in  their  hue; 
Maiden  pinks,  of  odour  faint, 
Daisies  smell-less,   yet  most  quaint, 

And  sweet  thyme  true ; 

Primrose,  firstborn  child  of  Ver; 
Merry  springtime's  harbinger, 

With  her  bells  dim; 
Oxlips  in  their  cradles  growing, 
Marigolds  on  death-beds  blowing, 

Larks'-heels  trim ; 

All  dear  Nature's  children  sweet 
Lie  'fore  bride  and  bridegroom's  feet, 

Blessing  their  sense ! 
Not  an  angel  of  the  air, 
Bird  melodious  or  bird  fair, 

Be  absent  hence ! 

The  crow,  the  slanderous  cuckoo,   nor 
The  boding  raven,   nor  chough  hoar, 

Nor  chattering  pye, 

May  on  our  bride-house  perch  or  sing, 
Or  with  them  any  discord  bring, 

But  from  it  fly  I 

?  or  John  Fletcher, 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


742.       T>irge  of  the  Three  Queens 

URNS  and  odours  bring  away ! 
Vapours,  sighs,  darken  the  day! 
Our  dole  more  deadly  looks  than  dying; 
Balms  and  gums  and  heavy  cheers. 
Sacred  vials  fill'd  with  tears, 
And  clamours  through  the  wild  air  flying ! 

Come,  all  sad  and  solemn  shows, 
That  are  quick-eyed  Pleasure's  foes! 
We  convent  naught  else  but  woes. 

?  or  John   Fletcher. 


/4J.  Orpheus 

/^VRPHEUS  with  his  lute  made  trees 
^-^      And  the  mountain  tops  that  freeze 

Bow  themselves  when  he  did  sing : 
To  his  music  plants  and  flowers 
Ever  sprung  ;    as  sun  and  showers 

There  had  made  a  lasting  spring. 

Every  thing  that  heard  him  play, 
Even  the  billows  of  the  sea, 

Hung  their  heads  and  then  lay  by. 
In  sweet  music  is  such  art, 
Killing  care  and  grief  of  heart 
Fall  asleep,  or  hearing,   die. 

?  or  John  Fletcher, 
142.  dole,  lamentation.  convent]  summon. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 
744.      The  Thcenix  and  the  Turtle 

LET  the  bird  of  loudest  lay 
On  the  sole  Arabian  tree, 
Herald  sad  and  trumpet  be, 
To  whose  sound  chaste  wings  obey. 

But  thou  shrieking  harbinger, 
Foul  precurrer  of  the  fiend, 
Augur  of  the  fever's  end, 

To  this  troop  come  thou  not  near- 

From  this  session  interdict 
Every  fowl  of  tyrant  wing 
Save  the  eagle,   feather'd  king: 

Keep  the  obsequy  so  strict. 

Let  the  priest  in  surplice  white 
That  defunctive  music  can, 
Be  the  death-divining  swan, 

Lest  the  requiem  lack  his  right. 

And  thou,   treble-dated  crow, 
That  thy  sable  gender  mak'st 
With  the  breath  thou  giv'st  and  tak'st, 

'Mongst  our  mourners  shall  thou  go. 

Here  the  anthem  doth  commence  : — - 
Love  and  constancy  is  dead  ; 
Phoenix  and  the  turtle  fled 

In  a  mutual  flame  from  hence. 

So  they  loved,   as  love  in  twain 

Had  the  essence  but  in  one ; 

Two  distincts,   division  none ; 

Number  there  in  love  was  slain. 

can]  knows. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

Hearts  remote,  yet  not  asunder  ; 
Distance,  and  no  space  was  seen 
'Twixt  the  turtle  and  his  queen: 

But  in  them  it  were  a  wonder. 

So  between  them  love  did  shine, 
That  the  turtle  saw  his  right 
Flaming  in  the  phoenix'  sight ; 

Either  was  the  other's  mine. 

Property  was  thus  appall'd, 

That  the  self  was  not  the  same ; 
Single  nature's  double  name 

Neither  two  nor  one  was  call'd. 

Reason,  in  itself  confounded, 
Saw  division  grow  together ; 
To  themselves  yet  either  neithei  • 

Simple  were  so  well  compounded, 

That  it  cried,   '  How  true  a  twain 
Seemeth  this  concordant  one ! 
Love  hath  reason,  reason  none 

If  what  parts  can  so  remain.' 

Whereupon  it  made  this  threne 
To  the  phoenix  and  the  dove, 
Co-supremes  and  stars  of  love, 

As  chorus  to  their  tragic  scene. 

THRENOS 

OEAUTY,  truth,   and  rarity, 
*~*  Grace  in  all  simplicity, 
Here  enclosed  in  cinders  lie. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

Death  is  now  the  phoenix'  nest; 
And  the  turtle's  loyal  breast 
To  eternity  doth  rest, 

Leaving  no  posterity: 
'Twas  not  their  infirmity, 
It  was  married  chastity. 

Truth  may  seem,  but  cannot  be; 
Beauty  brag,  but  'tis  not  she ; 
Truth  and  beauty  buried  be. 

To  this  urn  let  those  repair 
That  are  either  true  or  fair ; 
For  these  dead  birds  sigh  a  prayer. 


Sonnets 


QHALL  I  compare  thee  to  a  Summer's  day? 
^  Thou  art  more  lovely  and  more  temperate  : 
Rough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of  May, 
And  Summer's  lease  hath  all  too  short  a  date: 
Sometime  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  shines, 
And  often  is  his  gold  complexion   dimm'd  ; 
And  every  fair  from  fair  sometime  declines, 
By  chance  or  nature's  changing  course  untrimm'd  : 
But  thy  eternal  Summer  shall  not  fade 
Nor  lose  possession  of  that  fair  thou  owest; 
Nor  shall  Death  brag  thou  wanderest  in  his  shade, 
When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  thou  growest  : 
So  long  as  men  can  breathe,  or  eyes  can  see, 
So  long  lives  this,   and  this  gives  life  to  thee. 
190 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

146.  ii 

YVYHEN,  in  disgrace  with  Fortune  and  men's  eyes, 

I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state, 
And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless  cries, 
And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate, 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 
Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  possest, 
Desiring  this  man's  art  and  that  man's  scope, 
With  what  I   most  enjoy  contented  least; 
Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising — 
Haply  I  think  on  thee:    and  then  my  state, 
Like  to  the   Lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth,  sings  hymns  at  Heaven's  gate ; 
For  thy  sweet  love  rememb'red  such  wealth  brings 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with  Kings. 


747.  /// 

yy7"HEN  to  the  Sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 

I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 
I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 
And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's  waste; 
Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow, 
For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night, 
And  weep  afresh  love's  long-since-cancell'd  woe, 
And  moan  th'  expense  of  many  a  vanish'd  sight: 
Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone, 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 
The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 
Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before. 

But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,   dear  friend, 
All  losses  are  restored  and  sorrows  end. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

74.?.  fv 

THY  bosom  is  endeared  with  all  hearts 
Which  I,  by  lacking,  have  supposed  dead: 
And  there  reigns  Love,  and  all  Love's  loving  parts, 
And  all  those  friends  which  I  thought  buried. 
How  many  a  holy  and  obsequious  tear 
Hath  dear  religious  love  stol'n  from  mine  eye, 
As  interest  of  the  dead !— which  now  appear 
But  things  removed  that  hidden  in  thee  lie. 
Thou  art  the  grave  where  buried  love  doth  live, 
Hung  with  the  trophies  of  my  lovers  gone, 
Who  all  their  parts  of  me  to  thee  did  give: 
— That  due  of  many  now  is  thine  alone: 
Their  images  I  loved  I  view  in  thee, 
And  thou,  all  they,  hast  all  the  all  of  me. 

14P.  V 

YV7HAT  is  your  substance,  whereof  are  you  made, 
™     That  millions  of  strange  shadows  on  you  tend? 
Since  every  one  hath,  every  one,  one  shade, 
And  you,  but  one,  can  every  shadow  lend. 
Describe  Adonis,  and  the  counterfeit 
Is  poorly  imitated  after  you ; 
On  Helen's  cheek  all  art  of  beauty  set, 
And  you  in  Grecian  tires  are  painted  new : 
Speak  of  the  spring  and  foison  of  the  year, 
The  one  doth  shadow  of  your  beauty  show, 
The  other  as  your  bounty  doth  appear; 
And  you  in  every  blessed  shape  we  know. 
In  all  external  grace  you  have  some  part, 
But  you  like  none,  none  you,  for  constant  heart. 
9.  foison]  plenty. 
191 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

7  JO  vt 

/^V  HOW  much  more  doth  beauty  beauteous  seem 
^-^      By  that  sweet  ornament  which  truth  doth  give ! 
The  Rose  looks  fair,  but  fairer  we  it  deem 
For  that  sweet  odour  which  doth  in  it  live. 
The  Canker-blooms  have  full  as  deep  a  dye 
As  the  perfumed  tincture  of  the  Roses, 
Hang  on  such  thorns,  and  play  as  wantonly 
When  summer's  breath  their  masked  buds  discloses: 
But — for  their  virtue  only  is  their  show — 
They  live  unwoo'd  and  unrespected  fade, 
Die  to  themselves.      Sweet  Roses  do  not  so ; 
Of  their  sweet  deaths  are  sweetest  odours  made. 
And  so  of  you,  beauteous  and  lovely  youth, 
When  that  shall  vade,  my  verse  distils  your  truth. 

///.  vii 

OEING  your  slave,  what  should  I  do  but  tend 
*-*     Upon  the  hours  and  times  of  your  desire? 
I  have  no  precious  time  at  all  to  spend, 
Nor  services  to  do,  till  you  require. 
Nor  dare  I  chide  the  world-without-end  hour 
Whilst  I,  my  sovereign,  watch  the  clock  for  you, 
Nor  think  the  bitterness  of  absence  sour 
When  you  have  bid  your  servant  once  adieu ; 
Nor  dare  I  question  with  my  jealous  thought 
Where  you  may  be,  or  your  affairs  suppose, 
But,  like  a  sad  slave,  stay  and  think  of  nought 
Save,  where  you  are  how  happy  you  make  those! 
So  true  a  fool  is  love,  that  in  your  Will, 
Though  you  do  any  thing,  he  thinks  no  ill. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


THAT  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold- 
Bare  ruin'd  choirs  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  twilight  of  such  day 
As  after  Sunset  fadeth  in  the  West, 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest. 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  glowing  of  such  fire 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie, 
As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 
Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nourish'd  by. 

This  thou  perceiv'st,  which  makes  thy  love  more  strong 
To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long. 


"CAREWELL  !    thou  art  too  dear  for  my  possessing, 
"      And  like  enough  thou  know'st  thy  estimate: 
The  charter  of  thy  worth  gives  thee  releasing  ; 
My  bonds  in  thee  are  all  determinate. 
For  how  do  I  hold  thee  but  by  thy  granting? 
And  for  that  riches  where  is  my  deserving  ? 
The  cause  of  this  fair  gift  in  me  is  wanting, 
And  so  my  patent  back  again  is  swerving. 
Thyself  thou  gav'st,  thy  own  worth  then  not  knowing, 
Or  me,  to  whom  thou  gav'st  it,  else  mistaking; 
So  thy  great  gift,  upon  misprision  growing, 
Comes  home  again,  on  better  judgment  making. 
Thus  have  I  had  thee,  as  a  dream  doth  flatter 
In  sleep  a  King;    but  waking,  no  such  matter. 
194 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


'74*  x 

*  I  "HEN  hate  me  when  thou  wilt;    if  ever,  now; 

Now,  while  the  world  is  bent  my  deeds  to  cross, 

Join  with  the  spite  of  fortune,  make  me  bow, 

And  do  not  drop  in  for  an  after  loss: 

Ah!    do  not,  when  my  heart  hath  'scaped  this  sorrow, 

Come  in  the  rearward  of  a  conquer'  d  woe  ; 

Give  not  a  windy  night  a  rainy  morrow, 

To  linger  out  a  purposed  overthrow. 

If  thou  wilt  leave  me,  do  not  leave  me  last, 

When  other  petty  griefs  have  done  their  spite, 

But  in  the  onset  come  :    so  shall  I  taste 

At   first  the  very  worst  of  fortune's  might  ; 

And  other  strains  of  woe,  which  now  seem  woe, 
Compared  with  loss  of  thee  will  not  seem  so  ! 


if?.  xi 

""THEY  that  have  power  to  hurt  and  will  do  none, 
•*•       That  do  not  do  the  thing  they  most  do  show, 
Who,  moving  others,  are  themselves  as  stone, 
Unmoved,   cold,  and  to  temptation  slow  — 
They  rightly  do  inherit  heaven's  graces, 
And  husband  nature's  riches  from  expense; 
They  are  the  Lords  and  owners  of  their  faces, 
Others,  but  stewards  of  their  excellence. 
The  summer's  flower  is  to  the  summer  sweet, 
Though  to  itself  it  only  live  and  die  ; 
But  if  that  flower  with  base  infection  meet, 
The  basest  weed  outbraves  his  dignity: 

For  sweetest  things  turn  sourest  by  their  deeds; 
Lilies  that  fester  smell  far  worse  than  weeds. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


156.  xit 

T  T  OW  like  a  Winter  hath  my  absence  been 
•*•          From  thee,  the  pleasure  of  the  fleeting  year ! 
What  freezings  have  I  felt,   what  dark  days  seen, 
What  old  December's  bareness  everywhere! 
And  yet  this  time  removed  was  summer's  time; 
The  teeming  Autumn,   big  with  rich  increase, 
Bearing  the  wanton  burden  of  the  prime 
Like  widow'd  wombs  after  their  Lord's  decease: 
Yet  this  abundant  issue  seem'd  to  me 
But  hope  of  orphans  and  unfather'd  fruit ; 
For  Summer  and  his  pleasures  wait  on  thee, 
And,  thou  away,  the  very  birds  are  mute : 
Or  if  they  sing,   'tis  with  so  dull  a  cheer 
That  leaves  look  pale,  dreading  the  Winter's  near. 


/j7.  xm 

"CROM  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring, 
*•       When  proud-pied  April,  dress'd  in  all  his  trim, 
Hath  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  everything, 
That  heavy  Saturn  laugh'd  and  leap'd  with  him. 
Yet  nor  the  lays  of  birds,   nor  the  sweet  smell 
Of  different  flowers  in  odour  and  in  hue, 
Could  make  me  any  summer's  story  tell, 
Or  from  their  proud  lap  pluck  them  where  they  grew; 
Nor  did  I  wonder  at  the  Lily's  white, 
Nor  praise  the  deep  vermilion  in  the  Rose ; 
They  were  but  sweet,  but  figures  of  delight, 
Drawn  after  you,  you  pattern  of  all  those. 
Yet  seem'd  it  Winter  still,  and,   you  away, 
As  with  your  shadow  I  with  these  did  play. 
196 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


//.  xiv 

T^Y  love  is  strengthen'd,  though  more  weak  in  seeming; 

I  love  not  less,  though  less  the  show  appear: 
That  love  is  merchandised  whose  rich  esteeming 
The  owner's  tongue  doth  publish  everywhere. 
Our  love  was  new,   and  then  but  in  the  spring, 
When   I   was  wont  to  greet  it  with  my  lays; 
As  Philomel  in  summer's  front  doth  sing 
And  stops  her  pipe  in  growth  of  riper  days : 
Not  that  the  summer  is  less  pleasant  now 
Than  when  her  mournful  hymns  did  hush  the  night, 
But  that  wild  music  burthens  every  bough, 
And  sweets  grown  common  lose  their  dear  delight. 
Therefore,  like  her,   I  sometime  hold  my  tongue, 
Because  I  would  not  dull  you  with  my  song. 


159-  xv 

~PO  me,  fair  friend,  you  never  can  be  old ; 
•*•       For  as  you  were  when  first  your  eye  I  eyed, 
Such  seems  your  beauty  still.     Three  Winters  cold 
Have  from  the  forests  shook  three  Summers'  pride; 
Three  beauteous  springs  to  yellow  Autumn  turn'd 
In  process  of  the  seasons  have  I   seen, 
Three  April  perfumes  in  three  hot  Junes  burn'd, 
Since  first  I  saw  you  fresh,  which  yet  are  green. 
Ah!    yet  doth  beauty,  like  a  dial-hand, 
Steal  from  his  figure,  and  no  pace  perceived ; 
So  your  sweet  hue,  which  methinks  still  doth  stand, 
Hath  motion,  and  mine  eye  may  be  deceived: 
For  fear  of  which,  hear  this,  thou  age  unbred  : 
Ere  you  were  born  was  beauty's  summer  dead. 

'97 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

160.  xv  i 

in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 
see  descriptions  of  the  fairest  wights, 
And  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rime 
In  praise  of  Ladies  dead  and  lovely   Knights; 
Then,  in  the  blazon  of  sweet  beauty's  best, 
Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  lip,  of  eye,  of  brow, 
I  see  their  antique  pen  would  have  exprest 
Even  such  a  beauty  as  you  master  now. 
So  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies 
Of  this  our  time,  all  you  prefiguring ; 
And  for  they  look'd  but  with  divining  eyes, 
They  had  not  skill  enough  your  worth  to  sing: 
For  we,  which  now  behold  these  present  days, 
Have  eyes  to  wonder,  but  lack  tongues  to  praise. 

161.  xvii 

r\  NEVER  say  that  I  was  false  of  heart, 
^-"'     Though  absence  seem'd  my  flame  to  qualify  1 
As  easy  might  I  from  myself  depart, 
As  from  my  soul,   which  in  thy  breast  doth  lie : 
That  is  my  home  of  love;    if  I  have  ranged, 
Like  him  that  travels  I  return  again, 
Just  to  the  time,  not  with  the  time  exchanged, 
So  that  myself  bring  water  for  my  stain. 
Never  believe,  though  in  my  nature  reign'd 
All  frailties  that  besiege  all  kinds  of  blood, 
That  it  could  so  prepost'rously  be  stain'd, 
To  leave  for  nothing  all  thy  sum  of  good: 
For  nothing  this  wide  Universe  I  call, 
Save  thou,  my  Rose;    in  it  thou  art  my  all. 
198 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


162.  xviii 

T   ET  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 

•*-'     Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 

Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 

Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove : 

O,  no !    it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark, 

That  looks  on  tempests  and  is  never  shaken ; 

It  is  the  star  to  every  wand'ring  bark, 

Whose  worth 's  unknown,  although  his  height  be   taken. 

Love's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and  cheeks 

Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come; 

Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 

But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom: — 

If  this  be  error  and  upon  me  proved, 

I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 


163.  xix 

'T'H'  expense  of  Spirit  in  a  waste  of  shame 
•*•       Is  lust  in  action;    and  till  action,  lust 

Is  perjured,  murderous,  bloody,  full  of  blame, 

Savage,  extreme,  rude,  cruel,  not  to  trust; 

Enjoy'd  no  sooner  but  despised  straight; 

Past  reason  hunted ;    and,  no  sooner  had, 

Past  reason  hated,  as  a  swallow'd  bait 

On  purpose  laid  to  make  the  taker  mad : 

Mad  in  pursuit,  and  in  possession  so ; 

Had,  having,  and  in  quest  to  have,  extreme; 

A  bliss  in  proof,  and  proved,  a  very  woe ; 

Before,  a  joy  proposed;    behind,  a  dream. 

All  this  the  world  well  knows;    yet  none  knows  well 
To  shun  the  heaven  that  leads  men  to  this  hell. 


1 6 4> 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


XX 


POOR  soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth— 
My  sinful  earth  these  rebel  powers  array- 
Why  dost  thou  pine  within  and  suffer  dearth, 
Painting  thy  outward  walls  so  costly  gay? 
Why  so  large  cost,   having  so  short  a  lease, 
Dost  thou  upon  thy  fading  mansion  spend? 
Shall  worms,   inheritors  of  this  excess, 
Eat  up  thy  charge?    Is  this  thy  body's  end? 
Then,  soul,  live  thou  upon  thy  servant's  loss, 
And  let  that  pine  to  aggravate  thy  store; 
Buy  terms  divine  in  selling  hours  of  dross ; 
Within  be  fed,  without  be  rich  no  more: 

So  shalt  thou  feed  on  Death,  that  feeds  on  men; 

And  Death  once  dead,  there's  no  more  dying  then. 

RICHARD  ROWLANDS 

I  jr.  Lullaby 

>  1565-1630? 

UPON  my  lap  my  sovereign  sits 
And  sucks  upon  my  breast ; 
Meantime  his  love  maintains  my  life 
And  gives  my  sense  her  rest. 
Sing  lullaby,  my  little  boy, 
Sing  lullaby,  mine  only  joy! 

When  thou  hast  taken  thy  repast, 

Repose,  my  babe,  on  me; 

So  may  thy  mother  and  thy  nurse 

Thy  cradle  also  be. 

Sing  lullaby,  my  little  boy, 
Sing  lullaby,  mine  only  joy! 


RICHARD  ROWLANDS 

I  grieve  that  duty  doth  not  work 
All  that  my  wishing  would; 
Because  I   would  not  be  to  thee 
But  in  the  best  I  should. 

Sing  lullaby,  my  little  boy, 
Sing  lullaby,  mine  only  joy! 

Yet  as  I  am,  and  as  I  may, 
I  must  and  will  be  thine, 
Though  all  too  little  for  thyself 
Vouchsafing  to  be  mine. 

Sing  lullaby,   my  little  boy, 
Sing  lullaby,  mine  only  joy  1 


THOMAS  NASHE 

166.  Spring 

1567-1601 

C  PRING,  the  sweet  Spring,  is  the  year's  pleasant  king ; 
^     Then  blooms  each  thing,  then  maids  dance  in  a  ring, 
Cold  doth  not  sting,  the  pretty  birds  do  sing — 
Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pu-we,  to-witta-woo ! 

The  palm  and  may  make  country  houses  gay, 
Lambs  frisk  and  play,  the  shepherds  pipe  all  day, 
And  we  hear  aye  birds  tune  this  merry  lay — 
Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pu-we,  to-witta-woo ! 

The  fields  breathe  sweet,   the  daisies  kiss  our  feet, 
Young  lovers  meet,  old  wives  a-sunning  sit, 
tn  every  street  these  tunes  our  ears  do  greet — 
Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pu-we,  to-witta-woo ! 
Spring,  the  sweet  Spring  1 

H  3  20? 


THOMAS  NASHE 


In  Time  of  Pestilence 

«593 

A  DIEU,  farewell  earth's  bliss! 
•**•     This  world  uncertain  is: 
Fond  are  life's  lustful  joys, 
Death  proves  them  all  but  toys. 
None  from  his  darts  can  fly; 
1  am  sick,   I  must  die — 

Lord,   have  mercy  on  us  ! 

Rich  men,  trust  not  in  wealth, 
Gold  cannot  buy  you  health : 
Physic  himself  must  fade  ; 
All  things  to  end  are  made ; 
The  plague  full  swift  goes  by ; 
I  am  sick,   I  must  die — 

Lord,   have  mercy  on   us , 

Beauty  is  but  a  flower 
Which  wrinkles  will  devour ; 
Brightness  falls  from  the  air ; 
Queens  have  died  young  and  fair; 
Dust  hath  closed   Helen's  eye ; 
I  am  sick,   I  must  die — 

Lord,   have  mercy  on  us  I 

Strength  stoops  unto  the  grave, 
Worms  feed  on  Hector  brave ; 
Swords  may  not  fight  with  fate ; 
Earth  still  holds  ope  her  gate ; 
Come,  come !  the  bells  do  cry ; 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die — 

Lord,  have  mercy  on  us ! 


THOMAS  NASHE 

Wit  with  his  wantonness 
Tasteth  death's  bitterness ; 
Hell's  executioner 
Hath  no  ears  for  to  hear 
What  vain  art  can  reply; 
I  am  sick.   I  must  die — 

Lord,  have  mercy  on  tst  f 

Haste  therefore  each  degree 
To  welcome  destiny ; 
Heaven  is  our  heritage, 
Earth  but  a  player's  stage. 
Mount  we  unto  the  sky ; 
I  am  sick,   I  must  die — 

Lord,  have  mercy  on  us ! 


THOMAS  CAMPION 

l6S.  Cherry-Ripe 

•"THERE  is  a  garden  in  her  face 
*•      Where  roses  and  white  lilies  blow; 
A  heavenly  paradise  is  that  place, 
Wherein  all  pleasant  fruits  do  flow: 

There  cherries  grow  which  none  may  buy 
Till   '  Cherry-ripe  '  themselves  do  cry. 

Those  cherries  fairly  do  enclose 
Of  orient  pearl  a  double  row, 
Which  when  her  lovely  laughter  shows, 
They  look  like  rose-buds  fill'd  with  snow; 
Yet  them  nor  peer  nor  prince  can  buy 
Till  'Cherry-ripe'  themselves  do  cry. 


THOMAS  CAMPION 

Her  eyes  like  angels  watch  them  still ; 

Her  brows  like  bended  bows  do  stand, 
Threat'ning  with  piercing  frowns  to  kill 
All  that  attempt  with  eye  or  hand 
Those  sacred  cherries  to  come  nigh, 
Till  '  Cherry-ripe '  themselves  do  cry. 

169.  Laura, 

DOSE-CHEEK'D  Laura,  come; 
*^"     Sing  thou  smoothly  with  thy  beauty's 
Silent  music,  either  other 
Sweetly  gracing. 

Lovely  forms  do  flow 
From  concent  divinely  framed  : 
Heaven  is  music,  and  thy  beauty's 
Birth  is  heavenly. 

These  dull  notes  we  sing 
Discords  need  for  helps  to  grace  them  ; 
Only  beauty  purely  loving 
Knows  no  discord ; 

But  still  moves  delight, 
Like  clear  springs  renew'd  by  flowing, 
Ever  perfect,  ever  in  them- 
selves eternal. 

'Devotion 

170.  i 

pOL LOW  thy  fair  sun,  unhappy  shadow  ! 
A        Though  thou  be  black  as  night, 

And  she  made  all  of  light, 
Yet  follow  thy  fair  sun,  unhappy  shadow ! 


THOMAS  CAMPION 

Follow  her,  whose  light  thy  light  depriveth! 

Though  here  thou  liv'st  disgraced, 

And  she  in  heaven  is  placed, 
Yet  follow  her  whose  light  the  world  reviveth ! 

Follow  those  pure  beams,  whose  beauty  burneth  ! 

That  so  have  scorched  thee 

As  thou  still  black  must  be, 
Till  her  kind  beams  thy  black  to  brightness  turneth. 

Follow  her,  while  yet  her  glory  shineth! 

There  comes  a  luckless  night 

That  will  dim  all  her  light ; 
And  this  the  black  unhappy  shade  divineth. 

Follow  still,  since  so  thy  fates  ordained  1 

The  sun  must  have  his  shade, 

Till  both  at  once  do  fade, — 
The  sun  still  proved,  the  shadow  still  disdained. 

17 1.  it 

pOLLOW  your  saint,  follow  with  accents  sweet! 
*•     Haste  you,  sad  notes,   fall  at  her  flying  feet! 
There,  wrapt  in  cloud  of  sorrow,  pity  move, 
And  tell  the  ravisher  of  my  soul  I  perish  for  her  love: 
But  if  she  scorns  my  never-ceasing  pain, 
Then  burst  with  sighing  in  her  sight,  and  ne'er  return  again ! 

All  that  I  sung  still  to  her  praise  did  tend; 
Still  she  was  first,  still  she  my  songs  did  end ; 
Yet  she  my  love  and  music  both  doth  fly, 
The  music  that  her  echo  is  and  beauty's  sympathy: 
Then  let  my  notes  pursue  her  scornful  flight! 
It  shall   suffice  that  they  were  breathed  and   died  for  her 
delight. 


THOMAS  CAMPION 


772.  Pobiscum  est  lope 

WHEN  thou  must  home  to  shades  of  underground, 
And  there  arrived,  a  new  admired  guest, 
The  beauteous  spirits  do  engirt  thee  round, 
White  lope,  blithe  Helen,  and  the  rest, 
To  hear  the  stories  of  thy  finish'd  love 
From  that  smooth  tongue  whose  music  hell  can  move; 

Then  wilt  thou  speak  of  banqueting  delights, 

Of  masques  and  revels  which  sweet  youth  did  make, 

Of  tourneys  and  great  challenges  of  knights, 

And  all  these  triumphs  for  thy  beauty's  sake: 

When  thou  hast  told  these  honours  done  to  thee, 

Then  tell,  O  tell,  how  thou  didst  murder  me ! 


173.  d  Hymn  in  T raise  of  Neptune 

(~\&  Neptune's  empire  let  us  sing, 

^^   At  whose  command  the  waves  obey  j 

To  whom  the  rivers  tribute  pay, 

Down  the  high  mountains  sliding : 

To  whom  the  scaly  nation  yields 

Homage  for  the  crystal  fields 

Wherein  they  dwell : 
And  every  sea-god  pays  a  gem 
Yearly  out  of  his  wat'ry  cell 
To  deck  great  Neptune's  diadem. 

The  Tritons  dancing  in  a  ring 
Before  his  palace  gates  do  make 
The  water  with  their  echoes  quake, 
Like  the  great  thunder  sounding : 
•06 


THOMAS  CAMPION 

The  sea-nymphs  chant  their  accents  shrill, 
And  the  sirens,  taught  to  kill 

With  their  sweet  voice, 
Make  ev'ry  echoing  rock  reply 
Unto  their  gentle  murmuring  noise 
The  praise  of  Neptune's  empery. 

174.  Winter  Nights 

^[OW  winter  nights  enlarge 

The  number  of  their  hours, 
And  clouds  their  storms  discharge 

Upon  the  airy  towers. 
Let  now  the  chimneys  blaze 

And  cups  o'erflow  with  wine; 
Let  well-tuned  words  amaze 

With  harmony  divine. 
Now  yellow  waxen  lights 

Shall  wait  on  honey  love, 
While  youthful  revels,  masques,  and  courtly  sights 

Sleep's  leaden  spells  remove. 

This  time  doth  well  dispense 

With  lovers'  long  discourse ; 
Much  speech  hath  some  defence, 

Though  beauty  no  remorse. 
All  do  not  all  things  well ; 

Some  measures  comely  tread, 
Some  knotted  riddles  tell, 

Some  poems  smoothly  read. 
The  summer  hath  his  joys, 

And  winter  his  delights; 
Though  love  and  all  his  pleasures  are  but  toys, 

They  shorten  tedious  nights. 


THOMAS  CAMPION 


17  f.  Integer  Pitae 

HTHE  man  of  life  upright, 
•*•     Whose  guiltless  heart  is  free 
From  all  dishonest  deeds, 
Or  thought  of  vanity; 

The  man  whose  silent  days 
In  harmless  joys  are  spent, 

Whom  hopes  cannot  delude, 
Nor  sorrow  discontent ; 

That  man  needs  neither  towers 
Nor  armour  for  defence, 

Nor  secret  vaults  to  fly 
From  thunder's  violence: 

He  only  can  behold 
With  unaffrighted  eyes 

The  horrors  of  the  deep 
And  terrors  of  the  skies. 

Thus,  scorning  all  the  cares 
That  fate  or  fortune  brings, 

He  makes  the  heaven  his  book, 
His  wisdom  heavenly  things ; 

Good  thoughts  his  only  friends, 
His  wealth  a  well-spent  age, 

The  earth  his  sober  inn 
And  quiet  pilgrimage. 
108 


THOMAS  CAMPION 
176.  0  come  quickly  ! 

^EVER  weather-beaten  sail  more  willing  bent  to  shore, 

Never  tired  pilgrim's  limbs  affected  slumber  more, 
Than    my    wearied    sprite    now    longs    to    fly    out    of   my 

troubled  breast : 
O  come  quickly,  sweetest  Lord,  and  take  my  soul  to  rest ! 

Ever  blooming  are  the  joys  of  heaven's  high  Paradise, 
Cold  age  deafs  not  there  our  ears  nor  vapour  dims  our  eyes : 
Glory  there  the   sun   outshines;    whose  beams  the  Blessed 

only  see : 
O  come  quickly,  glorious  Lord,  and  raise  my  sprite  to  Thee ! 


JOHN    REYNOLDS 
177.  A  Nosegay 

i6th  Cent. 

CAY,  crimson   Rose  and  dainty  Daffodil, 

°  With  Violet  blue; 

Since  you  have  seen  the  beauty  of  my  saint, 

And  eke  her  view; 
Did  not  her  sight  (fair  sight!)  you  lonely  fill, 

With  sweet  delight 
Of  goddess'  grace  and  angels'  sacred  teint 

In  fine,  most  bright  ? 

Say,  golden  Primrose,   sanguine  Cowslip  fair, 

With  Pink  most  fine; 
Since  you  beheld  the  visage  of  my  dear, 

And  eyes  divine ; 
777   teint]  tint,  hue. 


JOHN  REYNOLDS 

Did  not  her  globy  front,  and  glistering  hair, 

With  cheeks  most  sweet, 
So  gloriously  like  damask  flowers  appear, 

The  gods  to  greet? 

Say,  snow-white  Lily,  speckled  Gillyflower, 

With  Daisy  gay; 
Since  you  have  viewed  the  Queen  of  my  desire, 

In  her  array; 
Did  not  her  ivory  paps,  fair  Venus'  bower, 

With  heavenly  glee, 
A  Juno's  grace,  conjure  you  to  require 

Her  face  to  see? 

Say  Rose,  say  Daffodil,  and  Violet  blue, 

With  Primrose  fair, 
Since  ye  have  seen  my  nymph's  sweet  dainty  face 

And  gesture  rare, 
Did  not  (bright  Cowslip,  blooming  Pink)  her  view 

(White  Lily)  shine — 
(Ah,  Gillyflower,  ah  Daisy!)  with  a  grace 

Like  stars  divine? 


SIR   HENRY  WOTTON 
178.  Elizabeth  of  Bohemia 

YOU  meaner  beauties  of  the  night, 
That  poorly  satisfy  our  eyes 
More  by  your  number  than  your  light, 
You  common  people  of  the  skies; 
What  are  you  when  the  moon  shall  rise  ? 


SIR  HENRY  WOTTON 

You  curious  chanters  of  the  wood, 

That  warble  forth  Dame  Nature's  lays, 

Thinking  your  passions  understood 

By  your  weak  accents;    what's  your  praise 
When  Philomel  her  voice  shall  raise? 

You  violets  that  first  appear, 

By  your  pure  purple  mantles  known 

Like  the  proud  virgins  of  the  year, 
As  if  the  spring  were  all  your  own ; 
What  are  you  when  the  rose  is  blown  ? 

So,  when  my  mistress  shall  be  seen 
In  form  and  beauty  of  her  mind, 

By  virtue  first,  then  choice,  a  Queen, 
Tell  me,  if  she  were  not  design'd 
Th'  eclipse  and  glory  of  her  kind. 


17 p.  The  Character  of  a  Happy  Life 

LJ  OW  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 
•*•  *•      That  serveth  not  another's  will ; 
Whose  armour  is  his  honest  thought, 
And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill! 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are; 
Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death, 
Untied  unto  the  world  by  care 
Of  public  fame  or  private  breath ; 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise, 
Nor  vice;    who  never  understood 
How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise; 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good; 


SIR  HENRY  WOTTON 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumours  freed; 
Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat; 
Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 
Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great ; 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  His  grace  than  gifts  to  lend; 
And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  religious  book  or  friend  ; 

— This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 
Of  hope  to  rise  or  fear  to  fall : 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands, 
And  having  nothing,   yet  hath  all. 


t8o.      Upon  the  f£)cath  of  Sir  Albert 
Morton's  Wife 


H 


E  first  deceased ;   she  for  a  little  tried 

To  live  without  him,  liked  it  not,  and  died. 


SIR  JOHN  DAVIES 

181.  Man 

1569-1626 

T    KNOW  my  soul  hath  power  to  know  all  things., 
*•      Yet  she  is  blind  and  ignorant  in  all : 
I  know  I'm  one  of  Nature's  little  kings, 
Yet  to  the  least  and  vilest  things  am  thrall. 


SIR  JOHN  DAVIES 

I  know  my  life 's  a  pain  and  but  a  span ; 
I  know  my  sense  is  mock'd  in  everything ; 
And,  to  conclude,   I  know  myself  a  Man — 
Which  is  a  proud  and  yet  a  wretched  thing. 


SIR   ROBERT   AYTON 

182.       To  His  Forsaken  Mistress 

1570-1638 

T    DO  confess  thou'rt  smooth  and  fair, 
•*•      And  I  might  have  gone  near  to  love  thee, 
Had  I  not  found  the  slightest  prayer 

That  lips  could  move,  had  power  to  move  thee ; 
But  I  can  let  thee  now  alone 
As  worthy  to  be  loved  by  none. 

I  do  confess  thou'rt  sweet ;    yet  find 
Thee  such  an  unthrift  of  thy  sweets, 

Thy  favours  are  but  like  the  wind 
That  kisseth  everything  it  meets : 

And  since  thou  canst  with  more  than  one, 

Thou'rt  worthy  to  be  kiss'd  by  none. 

The  morning  rose  that  untouch'd  stands 

Arm'd  with  her  briers,  how  sweet  she  smells  I 

But  pluck'd  and  strain'd  through  ruder  hands, 
Her  sweets  no  longer  with  her  dwells: 

But  scent  and  beauty  both  are  gone, 

And  leaves  fall  from  her,  one  by  one. 

Such  fate  ere  long  will  thee  betide 
When  thou  hast  handled  been  awhile, 

213 


SIR  ROBERT  AYTON 

With  sere  flowers  to  be  thrown  aside; 

And  I  shall  sigh,   while  some  will  smile, 
To  see  thy  love  to  every  one 
Hath  brought  thee  to  be  loved  by  none. 


183.  To  an  Inconstant  One 

T   LOVED  thee  once;    I'll  iove  no  more — 
*•     Thine  be  the  grief  as  is  the  blame ; 
Thou  art  not  what  thou  wast  before, 
What  reason  I  should  be  the  same  ? 
He  that  can  love  unloved  again, 
Hath  better  store  of  love  than  brain: 
God  send  me  love  my  debts  to  pay, 
While  unthrifts  fool  their  love  away! 

Nothing  could  have  my  love  o'erthrown 

If  thou  hadst  still  continued  mine; 
Yea,  if  thou  hadst  remain'd  thy  own, 
I  might  perchance  have  yet  been  thine. 
But  thou  thy  freedom  didst  recall 
That  it  thou  might  elsewhere  enthral : 
And  then  how  could  I  but  disdain 
A  captive's  captive  to  remain  ? 

When  new  desires  had  conquer'd  thee 
And  changed  the  object  of  thy  will, 
It  had  been  lethargy  in  me, 

Not  constancy,  to  love  thee  still. 
Yea,  it  had  been  a  sin  to  go 
And  prostitute  affection  so: 
Since  we  are  taught  no  prayers  to  say 
To  such  as  must  to  others  pray. 


SIR  ROBERT  AYTON 

Yet  do  thou  glory  in  thy  choice — 

Thy  choice  of  his  good  fortune  boast ; 
I'll  neither  grieve  nor  yet  rejoice 
To  see  him  gain  what  I  have  lost : 
The  height  of  my  disdain  shall  be 
To  laugh  at  him,   to  blush  for  thee; 
To  love  thee  still,  but  go  no  more 
A-begging  at  a  beggar's  door. 


BEN  JONSON 

.  Hymn  to   "Diana 

1573-1637 

QUEEN  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair, 
Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep, 
Seated  in  thy  silver  chair, 

State  in  wonted  manner  keep: 
Hesperus  entreats  thy  light, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Earth,   let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose; 
Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 

Heaven  to  clear  when  day  did  close: 
Bless  us  then  with  wished  sight, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart, 

And  thy  crystal-shining  quiver; 
Give  unto  the  flying  hart 

Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever: 
Thou  that  mak'st  a  day  of  night — 
Goddess  excellently  bright- 


BEN  JONSON 
i8f.  To  Celia 

DRINK  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 
And  I  will  pledge  with  mine; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup 
And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 
I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honouring  thee 
As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 

It  could  not  wither'd  be ; 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe, 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me ; 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,   I  swear, 

Not  of  itself  but  thee ! 

186.  Simplex  Munctitits 

CTILL  to  be  neat,   still  to  be  drest, 
***     As  you  were  going  to  a  feast ; 
Still  to  be  powder'd,  still  perfumed : 
Lady,  it  is  to  be  presumed, 
Though  art's  hid  causes  are  not  found, 
All  is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  sound. 

Give  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face 

That  makes  simplicity  a  grace ; 

Robes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free: 

Such  sweet  neglect  more  taketh  me 

Than  all  th'  adulteries  of  art ; 

They  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  my  heart. 

216 


BEN  JONSON 

/<?/.  The  Shadow 

"COLLOW  a  shadow,  it  still  flies  you: 

Seem  to  fly  it,  it  will  pursue : 
So  court  a  mistress,  she  denies  you ; 
Let  her  alone,   she  will  court  you. 
Say,  are  not  women  truly,  then, 
Styled  but  the  shadows  of  us  men? 

At  morn  and  even,   shades  are  longest ; 
At  noon  they  are  or  short  or  none : 
So  men  at  weakest,   they  are  strongest, 
But  grant  us  perfect,  they're  not  known. 
Say,  are  not  women  truly,  then, 
Styled  but  the  shadows  of  us  men  ? 

188.  The  Triumph 

OEE  the  Chariot  at  hand  here  of  Love, 

^     Wherein  my  Lady  rideth  ! 

Each  that  draws  is  a  swan  or  a  dove, 

And  well  the  car  Love  guideth. 
As  she  goes,  all  hearts  do  duty 

Unto  her  beauty ; 
And  enamour'd  do  wish,   so  they  might 

But  enjoy  such  a  sight, 
That  they  still  were  to  run  by  her  side, 
Through  swords,  through  seas,  whither  she  would  ride. 

Do  but  look  on  her  eyes,   they  do  light 

All  that  Love's  world  compriseth  ! 
Do  but  look  on  her  hair,  it  is  bright 

As  Love's  star  when  it  riseth ! 


BEN  JONSON 

Do  but  mark,  her  forehead's  smoother 

Than  words  that  soothe  her; 

And  from  her  arch'd  brows  such  a  grace 
Sheds  itself  through  the  face, 

As  alone  there  triumphs  to  the  life 

All  the  gain,  all  the  good,  of  the  elements'  strife. 

Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow 
Before  rude  hands  have  touch'd  it  ? 

Have  you  mark'd  but  the  fall  of  the  snow 
Before  the  soil  hath  smutch'd  it? 

Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  beaver, 
Or  swan's  down  ever? 

Or  have  smelt  o'  the  bud  o'  the  brier, 
Or  the  nard  in  the  fire  ? 

Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee  ? 

O  so  white,   O  so  soft,   O  so  sweet  is  shel 

189.  An  Elegy 

^THOUGH  beauty  be  the  mark  of  praise, 

And  yours  of  whom  I  sing  be  such 
As  not  the  world  can  praise  too  much, 
Yet  'tis  your  Virtue  now  I  raise. 

A  virtue,   like  allay  so  gone 

Throughout  your  form  as,  though  that  move 
And  draw  and  conquer  all  men's  love, 

This  subjects  you  to  love  of  one. 

Wherein  you  triumph  yet — because 
'Tis  of  your  flesh,  and  that  you  use 
The  noblest  freedom,  not  to  choose 
Against  or  faith  or  honour's  laws. 
189.  allay]  alloy. 


BEN  JONSON 

But  who  should  less  expect  from  you? 

In  whom  alone  Love  lives  again: 

By  whom  he  is  restored  to  men, 
And  kept  and  bred  and  brought  up  true. 

His  falling  temples  you  have  rear'd, 

The  wither'd  garlands  ta'en  away ; 

His  altars  kept  from  that  decay 
That  envy  wish'd,  and  nature  fear'd: 

And  on  them  burn  so  chaste  a  flame, 
With  so  much  loyalty's  expense, 
As  Love  to  acquit  such  excellence 

Is  gone  himself  into  your  name. 

And  you  are  he — the  deity 

To  whom  all  lovers  are  design'd 
That  would  their  better  objects  find; 

Among  which  faithful  troop  am  I — 

Who  as  an  ofPring  at  your  shrine 

Have  sung  this  hymn,  and  here  entreat 
One  spark  of  your  diviner  heat 

To  light  upon  a  love  of  mine. 

Which  if  it  kindle  not,  but  scant 
Appear,  and  that  to  shortest  view ; 
Yet  give  me  leave  to  adore  in  you 

What  I  in  her  am  grieved  to  want ! 

ipo.        A  Farewell  to  the  World 

"CALSE  world,  good  night !   since  thou  hast  brought 
*•         That  hour  upon  my  morn  of  age; 
Henceforth  I  quit  thee  from  my  thought, 
My  part  is  ended  on  thy  stage. 


BEN  JONSON 

Yes,  threaten,  do.     Alas!    I  fear 
As  little  as  I  hope  from  thee: 

I  know  thou  canst  not  show  nor  bear 
More  hatred  than  thou  hast  to  me. 

My  tender,  first,  and  simple  years 
Thou  didst  abuse  and  then  betray ; 

Since  stir'd'st  up  jealousies  and  fears, 
When  all  the  causes  were  away. 

Then  in  a  soil  hast  planted  me 

Where  breathe  the  basest  of  thy  fools ; 
Where  envious  arts  professed  be, 

And  pride  and  ignorance  the  schools ; 

Where  nothing  is  examined,  weigh'd, 
But  as  'tis  rumour'd,   so  believed; 

Where  every  freedom  is  betray'd, 

And  every  goodness  tax'd  or  grieved. 

But  what  we're  born  for,   we  must  bear: 
Our  frail  condition  it  is  such 

That  what  to  all  may  happen  here, 

If  't  chance  to  me,   I   must  not  grutch. 

Else  I  my  state  should  much  mistake 
To  harbour  a  divided  thought 

From  all  my  kind — that,  for  my  sake, 
There  should  a  miracle  be  wrought. 

No,  I  do  know  that  I  was  born 
To  age,  misfortune,  sickness,   grief: 

But  I  will  bear  these  with  that  scorn 
As  shall  not  need  thy  false  relief. 


BEN  JONSON 

Nor  for  my  peace  will   I  go  far, 

As  wanderers  do,   that  still  do  roam; 

But  make  my  strengths,   such  as  they  are, 
Here  in  my  bosom,  and  at  home. 


spi.  The  Noble  Balm 

J-^IGH-SPIRITED  friend, 

I  send  nor  balms  nor  cor'sives  to  your  wound : 

Your  fate  hath  found 
A  gentler  and  more  agile  hand  to  tend 
The  cure  of  that  which  is  but  corporal ; 
And  doubtful  days,   which  were  named  critical, 

Have  made  their  fairest  flight 

And  now  are  out  of  sight. 
Yet  doth  some  wholesome  physic  for  the  mind 

Wrapp'd  in  this  paper  lie, 
Which  in  the  taking  if  you  misapplj, 

You  are  unkind. 

Your  covetous  hand, 
Happy  in  that  fair  honour  it  hath  gain'd, 

Must  now  be  rein'd. 

True  valour  doth  her  own  renown  command 
In  one  full  action ;  nor  have  you  now  more 
To  do,  than  be  a  husband  of  that  store. 

Think  but  how  dear  you  bought 

This  fame  which  you  have  caught : 
Such  thoughts  will  make  you  more  in  love  with  truth. 

'Tis  wisdom,   and  that  high, 
For  men  to  use  their  fortune  reverently, 

Even  in  youth. 


BEN  JONSON 

Epitaphs 

i 
lp  2.  On  Elizabeth  L.  ff. 

WOULDST  thou  hear  what  Man  can  say 
In  a  little?    Reader,  stay. 
Underneath  this  stone  doth  lie 
As  much  Beauty  as  could  die: 
Which  in  life  did  harbour  give 
To  more  Virtue  than  doth  live. 
If  at  all  she  had  a  fault, 
Leave  it  buried  in  this  vault. 
One  name  was  Elizabeth, 
The  other,  let  it  sleep  with  death: 
Fitter,  where  it  died,  to  tell 
Than  that  it  lived  at  all.     Farewell. 

it 

tpS»  On  Salathiel  Tavy 

A  child  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  Chapel 
"W7EEP  with  me,  all  you  that  read 
W       This  little  story; 
And  know,  for  whom  a  tear  you  shed 

Death's  self  is  sorry. 
'Twas  a  child  that  so  did  thrive 

In  grace  and  feature, 
As  Heaven  and  Nature  seem'd  to  strive 

Which  own'd  the  creature. 
Years  he  number'd  scarce  thirteen 

When  Fates  turn'd  cruel, 
Yet  three  fill'd  zodiacs  had  he  been 

The  stage's  jewel ; 


BEN  JONSON 

And  did  act  (what  now  we  moan) 

Old  men  so  duly, 
As  sooth  the  Parcae  thought  him  one, 

He  play'd  so  truly. 
So,  by  error,  to  his  fate 

They  all  consented} 
But,   viewing  him  since,  alas,  too  late! 

They  have  repented ; 
And  have  sought,  to  give  new  birth, 

In  baths  to  steep  him ; 
But,  being  so  much  too  good  for  earth, 

Heaven  vows  to  keep  him. 


ip 4.  A  Tart  of  an  Ode 

to   the    Immortal  Memory  and  Friendship   of  that   noble  pair, 
Sir  Lucius   Gary  and  Sir  H.   M orison. 

TT  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 

In  bulk,   doth  make  man  better  be; 
Or  standing  long  an  oak,  three  hundred  year, 
To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,   and  sere: 
A  lily  of  a  day 
Is  fairer  far  in  May, 
Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night; 
It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  light. 
In  small  proportions  we  just  beauties  see; 
And  in  short  measures,   life  may  perfect  be. 

Call,  noble  Lucius,  then  for  wine, 
And  let  thy  looks  with  gladness  shine : 
Accept  this  garland,  plant  it  on  thy  head, 
And  think — nay,  know — thy  Morison  's  not  dead. 

333 


BEN  JONSON 

He  leap'd  the  present  age, 
Possest  with  holy  rage 
To  see  that  bright  eternal  Day 
Of  which  we  Priests  and  Poets  say 
Such  truths  as  we  expect  for  happy  men; 
And  there  he  lives  with  memory — and  Ben 

Jonson :   who  sung  this  of  him,  ere  he  went 

Himself  to  rest, 
Or  tast  a  part  of  that  full  joy  he  meant 

To  have  exprest 
In  this  bright  Asterism 
Where  it  were  friendship's  schism — 
Were  not  his  Lucius  long  with  us  to  tarry — 

To  separate  these  twy 

Lights,  the  Dioscuri, 
And  keep  the  one  half  from  his  Harry. 
But  fate  doth  so  alternate  the  design, 
Whilst  that  in  Heav'n,  this  light  on  earth  must  shine. 

And  shine  as  you  exalted  are ! 

Two  names  of  friendship,  but  one  star: 
Of  hearts  the  union :    and  those  not  by  chance 
Made,  or  indenture,  or  leased  out  to  advance 
The  profits  for  a  time. 
No  pleasures  vain  did  chime 

Of  rimes  or  riots  at  your  feasts, 

Orgies  of  drink  or  feign'd  protests; 
But  simple  love  of  greatness  and  of  good, 
That  knits  brave  minds  and  manners  more  than  blood. 

This  made  you  first  to  know  the  Why 
You  liked,  then  after,  to  apply 


BEN  JONSON 

That  liking,  and  approach  so  one  the  t'other 
Till  either  grew  a  portion  of  the  other: 
Each  styled  by  his  end 
The  copy  of  his  friend. 
You  lived  to  be  the  great  surnames 
And  titles  by  which  all  made  claims 
Unto  the  Virtue — nothing  perfect  done 
But  as  a  CART  or  a  MO R /SON. 

And  such  the  force  the  fair  example  had 

As  they  that  saw 
The  good,  and  durst  not  practise  it,   were  glad 

That  such  a  law 
Was  left  yet  to  mankind, 
Where  they  might  read  and  find 
FRIENDSHIP  indeed  was  written,  not  in  words, 

And  with  the  heart,  not  pen, 

Of  two  so  early  men, 
Whose  lines  her  rules  were  and  records : 
Who,  ere  the  first  down  bloomed  on  the  chin, 
Had  sow'd  these  fruits,  and  got  the  harvest  in. 


JOHN   DONNE 

pf.  Daybreak 

GTAY,   O  sweet,  and  do  not  rise! 
^     The  light  that  shines  comes  from  thine  eyes; 
The  day  breaks  not:    it  is  my  heart, 
Because  that  you  and  I  must  part. 

Stay!    or  else  my  joys  will  die 

And  perish  in  their  infancy. 


JOHN  DONNE 


196.  Song 

GO  and  catch  a  falling  star, 
Get  with  child  a  mandrake  root, 
Tell  me  where  all  past  years  are, 
Or  who  cleft  the  Devil's  foot; 
Teach  me  to  hear  mermaids  singing, 
Or  to  keep  off  envy's  stinging, 
And  find 
What  wind 
Serves  to  advance  an  honest  mind. 

If  thou  be'st  born  to  strange  sights, 

Things  invisible  go  see, 
Ride  ten  thousand  days  and  nights 

Till  Age  snow  white  hairs  on  thee; 
Thou,  when  thou  return'st,   wilt  tell  me 
All  strange  wonders  that  befell  thee, 
And  swear 
No  where 
Lives  a  woman  true  and  fair. 

If  thou  find'st  one,   let  me  know ; 

Such  a  pilgrimage  were  sweet. 
Yet  do  not ;    I  would  not  go, 

Though  at  next  door  we  might  meet. 
Though  she  were  true  when  you  met  her, 
And  last  till  you  write  your  letter, 
Yet  she 
Will  be 
False,  ere  I  come,  to  two  or  three. 


JOHN  DONNE 


197. 

That  Time  and  Absence  proves 
Rather  helps  than  hurts  to  loves 

ABSENCE,  hear  thou  my  protestation 
•**•     Against  thy  strength, 

Distance  and  length : 
Do  what  thou  canst  for  alteration, 

For  hearts  of  truest  mettle 

Absence  doth  join  and  Time  doth  settle. 

Who  loves  a  mistress  of  such  quality, 

His  mind  hath  found 

Affection's  ground 
Beyond  time,  place,  and  all  mortality. 

To  hearts  that  cannot  vary 

Absence  is  present,  Time  doth  tarry. 

My  senses   want  their  outward  motion 

Which  now  within 

Reason  doth  win. 
Redoubled  by  her  secret  notion : 

Like  rich  men  that  take  pleasure 

In  hiding  more  than  handling  treasure. 

By  Absence  this  good  means  I  gain, 

That  I  can  catch  her 

Where  none  can  watch  her, 
In  some  close  corner  of  my  brain : 

There  1   embrace  and  kiss  her, 

And  so  enjoy  her  and  none  miss  her. 


JOHN  DONNE 

The  Ecstasy 

like  a  pillow  on  a  bed, 
A  pregnant  bank  swell'd  up,   to  rest 
The  violet's  reclining  head, 

Sat  we  two,  one  another's  best. 

Our  hands  were  firmly  cemented 

By  a  fast  balm  which  thence  did  spring; 

Our  eye-beams  twisted,  and  did  thread 
Our  eyes  upon  one  double  string. 

So  to  engraft  our  hands,  as  yet 

Was  all  the  means  to  make  us  one ; 

And  pictures  in  our  eyes  to  get 
Was  all  our  propagation. 

As  'twixt  two  equal  armies  Fate 

Suspends  uncertain  victory, 
Our  souls — which  to  advance  their  state 

Were  gone  out — hung  'twixt  her  and  me. 

And  whilst  our  souls  negotiate  there, 
We  like  sepulchral  statues  lay  ; 

All  day  the  same  our  postures  were, 
And  we  said  nothing,  all  the  day. 

tpp.  The  'Dream 

PNEAR  iove,   for  nothing  less  than  thee 
*~^     Would  I  have  broke  this   happy  dream ; 

It  was  a  theme 

For  reason,  much  too  strong  for  fantasy. 
Therefore  thou  waked'st  me  wisely;   yet 
My  dream  thou  brok'st  not,  but  continued'st  it. 
u8 


JOHN  DONNE 

Thou  art  so  true  that  thoughts  of  thee  suffice 
To  make  dreams  truths  and  fables  histories ; 
Enter  these  arms,  for  since  thou  thought's!  it  best 
Not  to  dream  all  my  dream,  let 's  act  the  rest. 

As  lightning,  or  a  taper's  light, 

Thine  eyes,  and  not  thy  noise,  waked  me ; 

Yet  I  thought  thee — 

For  thou  lov'st  truth — an  angel,  at  first  sight; 
But  when  I  saw  thou  saw'st  my  heart, 
And  knew'st  my  thoughts  beyond  an  angel's  art, 
When  thou  knew'st  what  I  dreamt,  when  thou  knew'st  when 
Excess  of  joy  would  wake  me,  and  cam'st  then, 
I  must  confess  it  could  not  choose  but  be 
Profane  to  think  thee  anything  but  thee. 

Coming  and   staying  show'd  thee  thee, 
But  rising  makes  me  doubt  that  now 

Thou  art  not  thou. 

That  Love  is  weak  where  Fear 's  as  strong  as  he ; 
'Tis  not  all  spirit  pure  and  brave 
If  mixture  it  of  Fear,   Shame,   Honour  have. 
Perchance  as  torches,   which  must  ready  be, 
Men  light  and  put  out,   so  thou  deal'st  with  me. 
Thou  cam'st  to  kindle,  go'st  to  come :    then  I 
Will  dream  that  hope  again,   but  else  would  die. 


200.  The  Funeral 

VVTHOEVER  comes  to  shroud  me,  do  not  harm 

Nor  question  much 

That  subtle  wreath  of  hair  about  mine  arm ; 
The  mystery,  the  sign  you  must  not  touch, 


JOHN  DONNE 

For  'tis  my  outward  soul, 
Viceroy  to  that  which,  unto  heav'n  being  gone, 

Will  leave  this  to  control 
And  keep  these  limbs,  her  provinces,  from  dissolution. 

For  if  the  sinewy  thread  my  brain  lets  fall 

Through  every  part 

Can  tie  those  parts,  and  make  me  one  of  all ; 
Those  hairs,  which  upward  grew,   and  strength  and  art 

Have  from  a  better  brain, 
Can  better  do 't :  except  she  meant  that  I 

By  this  should  know  my  pain, 
As  prisoners  then  are  manacled,  when  they're  condemn'd  to  die. 

Whate'er  she  meant  by  't,   bury  it  with  me, 

For  since  I  am 

Love's  martyr,   it  might  breed  idolatry 
If  into  other  hands  these  reliques  came. 

As  'twas  humility 
T'  afford  to  it  all  that  a  soul  can  do, 

So  'tis  some  bravery 
That,  since  you  would  have  none  of  me,  I  bury  some  of  you. 


201.     j4  Hj/mn  to  God  the  Father 


Thou  forgive  that  sin  where  I  begun, 
Which  was  my  sin,  though  it  were  done  before? 
Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin  through  which  I  run, 

And  do  run  still,  though  still  I  do  deplore? 
When  Thou  hast  done,   Thou  hast  not  done; 
For  I  have  more. 


JOHN  DONNE 

Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin  which  I  have  won 
Others  to  sin,  and  made  my  sins  their  door  ? 

Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin  which  I  did  shun 
A  year  or  two,  but  wallow'd  in  a  score  ? 

When  Thou  hast  done,  Thou  hast  not  done; 
For  I  have  more. 

I  have  a  sin  of  fear,  that  when  I've  spufl. 

My  last  thread,   I  shall  perish  on  the  shore; 
But  swear  by  Thyself  that  at  my  death  Thy  Son 

Shall  shine  as  He  shines  now  and  heretofore : 
And  having  done  that,  Thou  hast  done; 
I  fear  no  more. 


202.  "Death 

F\EATH,  be  not  proud,  though  some  have  called  the? 
^^      Mighty  and  dreadful,   for  thou  art  not  so : 
For  those  whom  thou  think'st  thou  dost  overthrow 
Die  not,  poor  Death  ;    nor  yet  canst  thou  kill  me. 
From  Rest  and  Sleep,   which  but  thy  picture  be, 
Much  pleasure,   then  from  thee  much  more  must  flow ; 
And  soonest  our  best  men  with  thee  do  go — 
Rest  of  their  bones  and  souls'  delivery ! 
Thou'rt  slave  to  fate,   chance,   kings,   and  desperate  men, 
And  dost  with  poison,   war,  and  sickness  dwell ; 
And  poppy  or  charms  can  make  us  sleep  as  well 
And  better  than  thy  stroke.     Why  swell'st  thou  then  ? 

One  short  sleep  past,  we  wake  eternally, 

And  Death  shall   be  no  more :    Death,   thou  shalt  die ! 


RICHARD  BARNEFIELD 
203.  Thilomel 

! 

AS  it  fell  upon  a  day 
•**•     In  the  merry  month  of  May, 
Sitting  in  a  pleasant  shade 
Which  a  grove  of  myrtles  made, 
Beasts  did  leap  and  birds  did  sing, 
Trees  did  grow  and  plants  did  spring; 
Everything  did  banish  moan 
Save  the  Nightingale  alone: 
She,  poor  bird,  as  all  forlorn 
Lean'd  her  breast  up-till  a  thorn, 
And  there  sung  the  dolefull'st  ditty, 
That  to  hear  it  was  great  pity. 
Fie,  jie,  Jle  !    now  would  she  cry ; 
Tereu,    Tereu  !    by  and  by ; 
That  to  hear  her  so  complain 
Scarce  I  could  from  tears  refrain; 
For  her  griefs  so  lively  shown 
Made  me  think  upon  mine  own. 
Ah  1    thought  I,  thou  mourn'st  in  vain, 
None  takes  pity  on  thy  pain : 
Senseless  trees  they  cannot  hear  thee, 
Ruthless  beasts  they  will  not  cheer  thee 
King  Pandion  he  is  dead, 
All  thy  friends  are  lapp'd  in  lead; 
All  thy  fellow  birds  do  sing 
Careless  of  thy  sorrowing : 
Even  so,  poor  bird,  like  thee, 
None  alive  will  pity  me. 


232 


THOMAS  DEKKER 

204.  Sweet  Content 

»57S-'64» 

ART  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slumbers? 
•**•  O  sweet  content ! 

Art  thou  rich,  yet  is  thy  mind  perplex'd  ? 

O  punishment ! 

Dost  thou  laugh  to  see  how  fools  are  vex'd 
To  add  to  golden  numbers  golden  numbers  ? 

O  sweet  content!     O  sweet,  O  sweet  content! 
Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace; 
Honest  labour  bears  a  lovely  face ; 
Then  hey  nonny  nonny — hey  nonny  nonny ! 

Canst  drink  the  waters  of  the  crisped  spring? 

O   sweet  content ! 
Swim'st  thou  in  wealth,   yet  sink'st  in  thine  own  tears? 

O  punishment ! 

Then  he  that  patiently  want's  burden  bears, 
No  burden  bears,  but  is  a  king,  a  king ! 

O  sweet  content !     O  sweet,  O  sweet  content  1 
Work  apace,   apace,  apace,  apace ; 
Honest  labour  bears  a  lovely  face ; 
Then  hey  nonny  nonny — hey  nonny  nonny ! 


THOMAS  HEYWOOD 


20?.  Matin  Song 


PACK,  clouds,  away  !    and  welcome,  day  ! 
*       With  night  we  banish  sorrow. 
Sweet  air,  blow  soft;    mount,  lark,  aloft 
To  give  my  Love  good-morrow! 

1  3  *33 


THOMAS  HEYWOOD 

Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind, 

Notes  from  the  lark  I'll  borrow : 
Bird,  prune  thy  wing!    nightingale,   sing! 
To  give  my  Love  good-morrow ! 

To  give  my  Love  good- morrow 
Notes  from  them  all  I'll  borrow. 

Wake  from  thy  nest,  robin  red-breast ! 

Sing,  birds,   in  every  furrow ! 
And  from  each  bill  let  music  shrill 

Give  my  fair  Love  good-morrow ! 
Blackbird  and  thrush  in  every  bush, 

Stare,  linnet,  and  cocksparrow, 
You  pretty  elves,  among  yourselves 

Sing  my  fair  Love  good-morrow ! 

To  give  my  Love  good-morrow  1 
Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow ! 

206.  The  Message 

VE  little  birds  that  sit  and  sing 
•*•       Amidst  the  shady  valleys, 
And  see  how  Phillis  sweetly  walks 

Within  her  garden-alleys ; 
Go,  pretty  birds,  about  her  bower ; 
Sing,  pretty  birds,  she  may  not  lower ; 
Ah  me !    methinks  I  see  her  frown ! 
Ye  pretty  wantons,  warble. 

Go  tell  her  through  your  chirping  bills, 

As  you  by  me  are  bidden, 
To  her  is  only  known  my  love, 

Which  from  the  world  is  hidden. 
aoj.  stare]  starling. 
»34 


THOMAS  HEYWOOD 

Go,  pretty  birds,  and  tell  her  so, 
See  that  your  notes  strain  not  too  low, 
For  still  methinks  I  see  her  frown ; 
Ye  pretty  wantons,  warble. 

Go  tune  your  voices'  harmony 
And  sing,   I  am  her  lover ; 
Strain  loud  and  sweet,  that  every  note 
With  sweet  content  may  move  her: 
And  she  that  hath  the  sweetest  voice, 
Tell  her  I   will  not  change  my  choice: 
— Yet  still  methinks  I  see  her  frown  ! 
Ye  pretty  wantons,  warble. 

O  fly !    make  haste !    see,   see,   she  falls 

Into  a  pretty  slumber ! 
Sing  round  about   her  rosy  bed 

That  waking  she  may  wonder: 
Say  to  her,   'tis  her  lover  true 
That  sendeth  love  to  you,  to  you ! 
And  when  you  hear  her  kind  reply, 
Return  with  pleasant  warblings. 


JOHN  FLETCHER 

207.  Sleep 

1579-1625 

^^OME,  Sleep,  and  with  thy  sweet  deceiving 
^"^      Lock  me  in  delight  awhile ; 

Let  some  pleasing  dreams  beguile 
All  my  fancies;  that  from  thence 
I  may  feel  an  influence 
All  my  powers  of  care  bereaving! 

•39 


JOHN  FLETCHER 

Though  but  a  shadow,  but  a  sliding, 
Let  me  know  some  little  joy  I 
We  that  suffer  long  annoy 
Are  contented  with  a  thought 
Through  an  idle  fancy  wrought: 

O  let  my  joys  have  some  abiding! 


208.  Bridal  Song 

CYNTHIA,  to  thy  power  and  thee 
We  obey. 
Joy  to  this  great  company ! 

And  no  day 
Come  to  steal  this  night  away 

Till  the  rites  of  love  are  ended, 
And  the  lusty  bridegroom   say, 
Welcome,  light,  of  all  befriended ! 

Pace  out,  you  watery  powers  below; 

Let  your  feet, 
Like  the  galleys  when  they  row, 

Even  beat ; 

Let  your  unknown  measures,   set 
To  the  still  winds,  tell  to  all 
That  gods  are  come,  immortal,  great, 
To  honour  this  great  nuptial ! 


20p.  Aspatia's  Song 

T  AY  a  garland  on  my  herse 

Of  the  dismal  yew ; 
Maidens,  willow  branches  bear ; 
Say,   I  died  true. 

»36 


JOHN  FLETCHER 

My  love  was  false,  but  I  was  firm 

From  my  hour  of  birth. 
Upon  my  buried  body  lie 

Lightly,  gentle  earth! 

210.  Hymn  to  Tan 

CING  his  praises  that  doth  keep 
^     Our  flocks  from  harm, 
Pan,  the  father  of  our  sheep ; 

And  arm  in  arm 
Tread  we  softly  in  a  round, 
Whilst  the  hollow  neighbouring  ground 
Fills  the  music  with  her  sound. 

Pan,  O  great  god  Pan,  to  thee 

Thus  do  we  sing! 
Thou  who  keep'st  us  chaste  and  free 

As  the  young  spring: 
Ever  be  thy  honour  spoke 
From  that  place  the  morn  is  broke 
To  that  place  day  doth  unyoke! 

2/7.  Away,   "Delights! 

AWAY,   delights !    go  seek  some  other  dwelling, 
**•  For  I  must  die. 

Farewell,   false  love  !    thy  tongue  is  ever  telling 

Lie  after  lie. 
For  ever  let  me  rest  now  from  thy  smarts; 

Alas,   for  pity  go 

And  fire  their  hearts 
That  have  been  hard  to  thee!      Mine  was  not  so. 


JOHN  FLETCHER 

Never  again  deluding  love  shall  know  me, 

For  I  will  die; 
And  all  those  griefs  that  think  to  overgrow  me 

Shall  be  as  I : 
For  ever  will  I  sleep,  while  poor  maids  cry — 

'Alas,  for  pity  stay, 

And  let  us  die 
With  thee!     Men  cannot  mock  us  in  the  clay.' 


212.  Love's  Emblems 

^OW  the  lusty  spring  is  seen; 
•*•          Golden  yellow,  gaudy  blue, 

Daintily  invite  the  view: 
Everywhere  on  every  green 
Roses  blushing  as  they  blow, 

And  enticing  men  to  pull, 
Lilies  whiter  than  the  snow, 

Woodbines  of  sweet  honey  full : 
All  love's  emblems,  and  all  cry, 
'  Ladies,  if  not  pluck'd,  we  die.' 

Yet  the  lusty  spring  hath  stay'd; 

Blushing  red  and  purest  white 

Daintily  to  love  invite 
Every  woman,  every  maid: 
Cherries  kissing  as  they  grow, 

And  inviting  men  to  taste, 
Apples  even  ripe  below, 

Winding  gently  to  the  waist: 
All  love's  emblems,  and  all  cry, 
'Ladies,  if  not  pluck'd,  we  die.' 


JOHN  FLETCHER 

213.  Hear,  ye  Ladies 

LJEAR,  ye  ladies  that  despise 

*•  *•      What  the  mighty  Love  has  donei 

Fear  examples  and  be  wise: 

Fair  Callisto  was  a  nun; 
Leda,  sailing  on  the  stream 

To  deceive  the  hopes  of  man, 
Love  accounting  but  a  dream, 

Doted  on  a  silver  swan; 
Danae,  in  a  brazen  tower, 
Where  no  love  was,  loved  a  shower. 

Hear,  ye  ladies  that  are  coy, 

What  the  mighty  Love  can  do; 
Fear  the  fierceness  of  the  boy: 

The  chaste  Moon  he   makes  to  woo; 
Vesta,   kindling  holy  fires, 

Circled  round  about  with  spies, 
Never  dreaming  loose  desires, 

Doting  at  the  altar  dies; 

Ilion,  in  a  short  hour,  higher 
He  can  build,  and  once  more  fire 

214.  God  Lyaeus 

/^  OD   Lyaeus,  ever  young, 
^-*   Ever  honour'd,  ever  sung, 
Stain'd  with  blood  of  lusty  grapes, 
In  a  thousand  lusty  shapes 
Dance  upon  the  mazer's  brim, 
In  the  crimson  liquor  swim ; 

914    mazer]  a  bowl  of  maple-wood. 


JOHN  FLETCHER 

From  thy  plenteous  hand  divine 
Let  a  river  run  with  wine : 

God  of  youth,  let  this  day  here 
Enter  neither  care  nor  fear. 


2 if.          Beauty  Clear  and  Fair 

BEAUTY  clear  and  fair, 
Where  the  air 

Rather  like  a  perfume  dwells; 
Where  the  violet  and  the  rose 
Their  blue  veins  and  blush  disclose. 
And  come  to  honour  nothing  else : 

Where  to  live  near 
And  planted  there 
Is  to  live,  and  still  live  new ; 
Where  to  gain  a  favour  is 
More  than  light,  perpetual  bliss — • 
Make  me  live  by  serving  you ! 

Dear,  again  back  recall 
To  this  light, 

A  stranger  to  himself  and  all! 
Both  the  wonder  and  the  story 
Shall  be  yours,  and  eke  the  glory ; 

I  am  your  servant,  and  your  thrall. 

21 6.  Melancholy 

LJENCE,  all  you  vain  delights, 

*•  •*      As  short  as  are  the  nights 

Wherein  you  spend  your  folly  1 

There's  naught  in  this  life  sweet, 


JOHN  FLETCHER 

If  men  were  wise  to  see't, 

But  only  melancholy — 

O  sweetest  melancholy ! 
Welcome,  folded  arms  and  fixed  eyes, 
A  sight  that  piercing  mortifies, 
A  look  that 's  fasten'd  to  the  ground, 
A  tongue  chain'd  up  without  a  sound  1 

Fountain-heads  and  pathless  groves, 
Places  which  pale  passion  loves ! 
Moonlight  walks,  when  all  the  fowls 
Are  warmly  housed,  save  bats  and  owls ! 
A  midnight  bell,  a  parting  groan — 
These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon  : 
Then  stretch  our  bones  in  a  still  gloomy  valley, 
Nothing's  so  dainty  sweet  as  lovely  melancholy. 


2/7.  Weep  no  more 

VW"EEP  no  more,  nor  sigh,  nor  groan, 
Sorrow  calls  no  time  that 's  gone : 
Violets  pluck'd,  the  sweetest  rain 
Makes  not  fresh  nor  grow  again. 
Trim  thy  locks,  look  cheerfully; 
Fate's  hid  ends  eyes  cannot  see. 
Joys  as  winged  dreams  fly  fast, 
Why  should  sadness  longer  last  ? 
Grief  is  but  a  wound  to  woe ; 
Gentlest  fair,  mourn,  mourn  no  moe. 


JOHN  WEBSTER 


218. 

CALL  for  the  robin-redbreast  and  the  wren, 
Since  o'er  shady  groves  they  hover, 
And  with  leaves  and  flowers  do  cover 
The  friendless  bodies  of  unburied  men. 
Call  unto  his  funeral  dole 
The  ant,  the  field-mouse,  and  the  mole, 
To  rear  him  hillocks  that  shall  keep  him  warm, 
And  (when  gay  tombs  are  robb'd)  sustain  no  harm; 
But  keep  the  wolf  far  thence,  that's  foe  to  men, 
For  with  his  nails  he'll  dig  them  up  again. 


21  p.  The  Shrouding  of  the  Duchess  of  Malfi 

LJARK!    Now  everything  is  still, 

•••  •*•      The  screech-owl  and  the  whistler  shrill, 

Call  upon  our  dame  aloud, 

And  bid  her  quickly  don  her  shroud  ! 

Much  you  had  of  land  and  rent  ; 
Your  length  in  clay  's  now  competent  : 
A  long  war  disturb'd  your  mind  ; 
Here  your  perfect  peace  is  sign'd. 

Of  what  is  't  fools  make  such  vain  keeping  ? 
Sin  their  conception,  their  birth  weeping, 
Their  life  a  general  mist  of  error, 
Their  death  a  hideous  storm  of  terror. 
Strew  your  hair  with  powders  sweet, 
Don  clean  linen,  bathe  your  feet, 
318.  dole]  lamentation. 

3*2 


JOHN  WEBSTER 

And — the  foul  fiend  more  to  check — 
A  crucifix  let  bless  your  neck: 
'Tis  now  full  tide  'tween  night  and  day; 
End  your  groan  and  come  away. 

220.  fanitas  yanttatum 

A  LL  the  flowers  of  the  spring 
**'     Meet  to  perfume  our  burying; 
These  have  but  their  growing  prime, 
And  man  does  flourish  but  his  time: 
Survey  our  progress  from  our  birth — 
We  are  set,  we  grow,  we  turn  to  earth. 
Courts  adieu,  and  all  delights, 
All  bewitching  appetites! 
Sweetest  breath  and  clearest  eye 
Like  perfumes  go  out  and  die ; 
And  consequently  this  is  done 
As  shadows  wait  upon  the  sun. 
Vain  the  ambition  of  kings 
Who  seek  by  trophies  and  dead  things 
To  leave  a  living  name  behind, 
And  weave  but  nets  to  catch  the  wind. 


WILLIAM   ALEXANDER,    EARL   OF 
STIRLING 

22J.  Aurora 

15807-1640 

r\   HAPPY  Tithon !    if  thou  know'st  thy  hap, 
^— '      And  valuest  thy  wealth,  as  I  my  want, 

Then  need'st  thou  not — which  ah  !   I  grieve  to  grant — 
Repine  at  Jove,  lull'd  in  his  leman's  lap : 


EARL  OF  STIRLING 

That  golden  shower  in  which  he  did  repose — 

One  dewy  drop  it  stains 

Which  thy  Aurora  rains 

Upon  the  rural  plains, 
When  from  thy  bed  she  passionately  goes. 

Then,  waken'd  with  the  music  of  the  merles, 
She  not  remembers  Memnon  when  she  mourns: 
That  faithful  flame  which  in  her  bosom  burns 
From  crystal  conduits  throws  those  liquid  pearls : 
Sad  from  thy  sight  so  soon  to  be  removed, 
She  so  her  grief  delates. 
—  O  favour'd  by  the  fates 
Above  the  happiest  states, 
Who  art  of  one  so  worthy  well-beloved ! 


PHINEAS   FLETCHER 

222.  A  Litany 

1580-1650 

r\ROP,  drop,  slow  tears, 
**^     And  bathe  those  beauteous  feet 
Which  brought  from  Heaven 

The  news  and  Prince  of  Peace: 
Cease  not,  wet  eyes, 

His  mercy  to  entreat; 
To  cry  for  vengeance 

Sin  doth  never  cease. 
In  your  deep  Hoods 

Drown  all  my  faults  and  fears; 
Nor  let  His  eye 

See  sin,  but  through  my  tears. 


SIR  JOHN   BEAUMONT 

223.          Of  his  Dear  Son,  Gervase 

1583-1627 

"TXEAR  Lord,   receive  my  son,   whose  winning  love 
*~*     To  me  was  like  a  friendship,  far  above 
The  course  of  nature  or  his  tender  age ; 
Whose  looks  could  all  my  bitter  griefs  assuage: 
Let  his  pure  soul,  ordain'd  seven  years  to  be 
In  that  frail  body  which  was  part  of  me, 
Remain  my  pledge  in  Heaven,  as  sent  to  show 
How  to  this  port  at  every  step  I  go. 


WILLIAM  DRUMMOND,  OF  HAWTHORNDEN 

224.  Invocation 

1585-1649 

pHCEBUS,  arise! 

*      And  pa'mt  the  sable  skies 
With  azure,  white,  and  red ; 
Rouse  Memnon's  mother  from  her  Tithon's  bed, 
That  she  thy  career  may  with  roses  spread ; 
The  nightingales  thy  coming  each-where  sing ; 
Make  an  eternal  spring  ! 

Give  life  to  this  dark  world  which  lieth  dead: 
Spread  forth  thy  golden  hair 
In  larger  locks  than  thou  wast  wont  before, 
And  emperor-like  decore 
With  diadem  of  pearl  thy  temples  fair: 
Chase  hence  the  ugly  night 
Which  serves  but  to  make  dear  thy  glorious  light. 


WILLIAM  DRUMMOND 

This  is  that  happy  morn, 

That  day,  long  wished  day 

Of  all  my  life  so  dark 

(If  cruel  stars  have  not  my  ruin  sworn 

And  fates  not  hope  betray), 

Which,  only  white,  deserves 

A  diamond  for  ever  should  it  mark: 

This  is  the  morn  should  bring  into  this  grove 

My  Love,  to  hear  and  recompense  my  love. 

Fair  King,   who  all  preserves, 

But  show  thy  blushing  beams, 

And  thou  two  sweeter  eyes 

Shalt  see  than  those  which  by  Peneus'  streams 

Did  once  thy  heart  surprise : 

Nay,   suns,   which  shine  as  clear 

As  thou  when  two  thou  did  to  Rome  appear. 

Now,  Flora,  deck  thyself  in  fairest  guise : 

If  that  ye,  winds,   would  hear 

A  voice  surpassing  far  Amphion's  lyre, 

Your  stormy  chiding  stay ; 

Let  zephyr  only  breathe 

And  with  her  tresses  play, 

Kissing  sometimes  these  purple  ports  of  death. 

The  winds  all  silent  are; 

And  Phoebus  in  his  chair 

Ensaffroning  sea  and  air 

Makes  vanish  every  star : 

Night  like  a  drunkard  reels 

Beyond  the  hills  to  shun  his  flaming  wheels: 

The  fields  with  flowers  are  deck'd  in  every  hue, 

The  clouds  bespangle  with  bright  gold  their  blue : 

Here  is  the  pleasant  place — 

And  everything,  save  Her,  who  all  should  grace. 


WILLIAM  DRUMMOND 


22?.  Madrigal 

T   IKE  the  Idalian  queen, 

***     Her  hair  about  her  eyne, 
With  neck  and  breast's  ripe  apples  to  be  seen, 

At  first  glance  of  the  morn 
In  Cyprus'  gardens  gathering  those  fair  fiow'rs 

Which  of  her  blood  were  born, 
I  saw,  but  fainting  saw,   my  paramours. 
The  Graces  naked  danced  about  the  place, 

The  winds  and  trees  amazed 

With  silence  on  her  gazed, 
The  flowers  did  smile,  like  those  upon  her  face 
And  as  their  aspen  stalks  those  fingers  band, 

That  she  might  read  my  case, 
A  hyacinth  I  wish'd  me  in  her  hand- 


22 6.  Spring  Bereaved  I 

""THAT  zephyr  every  year 
•^       So  soon  was  heard  to  sigh  in  forests  here, 
It  was  for  her:    that  wrapp'd  in  gowns  of  green 

Meads  were  so  early  seen, 

That  in  the  saddest  months  oft  sung  the  merles, 
It  was  for  her;    for  her  trees  dropp'd  forth  pearls. 

That  proud  and  stately  courts 
Did  envy  those  our  shades  and  calm  resorts, 
It  was  for  her ;    and  she  is  gone,   O  woe ! 

Woods  cut  again  do  grow, 
Bud  doth  the  rose  and  daisy,  winter  done; 
But  we,  once  dead,  no  more  do  see  the  sun. 
f.  paramours]  »=  sing,  paramour.  band]  bound 


WILLIAM  DRUMMOND 

227.  Spring  Bereaved  2 

SWEET  Spring,  thou  turn'st  with  all  thy  goodly  train, 
Thy  head  with  flames,  thy  mantle  bright  with  flow'rs ; 
The  zephyrs  curl  the  green  locks  of  the  plain, 
The  clouds  for  joy  in  pearls  weep  down  their  show'rs. 
Thou  turn'st,  sweet  youth,  but  ah  !    my  pleasant  hours 
And  happy  days  with  thee  come  not  again ; 
The  sad  memorials  only  of  my  pain 
Do  with  thee  turn,  which  turn  my  sweets  in  sours. 
Thou  art  the  same  which  still  thou  wast  before, 
Delicious,  wanton,   amiable,   fair ; 
But  she,  whose  breath  embalm'd  thy  wholesome  air, 
Is  gone — nor  gold  nor  gems  her  can  restore. 

Neglected  virtue,  seasons  go  and  come, 

While  thine  forgot  lie  closed  in  a  tomb. 

228.  Spring  Bereaved  j 

A  LEXIS,  here  she  stay'd  ;    among  these  pines, 
•**•     Sweet  hermitress,  she  did  alone  repair; 
Here  did  she  spread  the  treasure  of  her  hair, 
More  rich  than  that  brought  from  the  Colchian  mines. 
She  set  her  by  these  musKed  eglantines, 
— The  happy  place  the  print  seems  yet  to  bear: 
Her  voice  did  sweeten  here  thy  sugar'd  lines, 
To  which  winds,  trees,  beasts,  birds,  did  lend  their  ear. 
Me  here  she  first  perceived,  and  here  a  morn 
Of  bright  carnations  did  o'erspread  her  face; 
Here  did  she  sigh,  here  first  my  hopes  were  born, 
And  I  first  got  a  pledge  of  promised  grace: 
But  ah !    what  served  it  to  be  happy  so  ? 
Sith  passed  pleasures  double  but  new  woe  ? 
•48 


WILLIAM  DRUMMOND 


22  p.  Her  Tass'mg 

""THE  beauty  and  the  life 

Of  life's  and  beauty's  fairest  paragon 
— O  tears!  O  grief! — hung  at  a  feeble  thread 
To  which  pale  Atropos  had  set  her  knife ; 

The  soul  with  many  a  groan 

Had  left  each  outward  part, 
And  now  did  take  his  last  leave  of  the  heart: 
Naught  else  did  want,  save  death,  ev'n  to  be  dead; 
When  the  afflicted  band  about  her  bed, 
Seeing  so  fair  him  come  in  lips,   cheeks,  eyes, 
Cried,    ''Ah  !    and  can  Death  enter  Paradise  ? ' 


2  30.  Inexorable 

TVA  Y  thoughts  hold  mortal  strife  j 

*^*-      I  do  detest  my  life, 

And  with  lamenting  cries 

Peace  to  my  soul  to  bring 
Oft  call  that  prince  which  here  do'th  monarchisei 

— But  he,  grim-grinning  King, 
Who  caitiffs  scorns,  and  doth  the  blest  surprise, 
Late  having  deck'd  with  beauty's  rose  his  tomb, 
Disdains  to  crop  a  weed,  and  will  not  come. 


2$i.   Change  should  breed  Change 

XT  EW  doth  the  sun  appear, 
*•          The  mountains'  snows  decay, 
Crown'd  with  frail  flowers  forth  comes  the  baby  year. 
My  soul,  time  posts  away ; 


WILLIAM  DRUMMOND 

And  thou  yet  in  that  frost 

Which  flower  and  fruit  hath  lost, 
As  if  all  here  immortal  were,  dost  stay. 

For  shame!    thy  powers  awake, 

Look  to  that  Heaven  which  never  night  makes  black, 
And  there  at  that  immortal  sun's  bright  rays, 
Deck  thee  with  flowers  which  fear  not  rage  of  days  1 

232.  Saint  John  Baptist 

THE  last  and  greatest  Herald  of  Heaven's  King, 
Girt  with  rough  skins,  hies  to  the  deserts  wild, 
Among  that  savage  brood  the  woods  forth  bring, 
Which  he  than  man  more  harmless  found  and  mild. 
His  food  was  locusts,  and  what  young  doth  spring 
With  honey  that  from  virgin  hives  distill'd ; 
Parch'd  body,  hollow  eyes,   some  uncouth  thing 
Made  him  appear,  long  since  from  earth  exiled. 
There  burst  he  forth:    'All  ye,  whose  hopes  rely 
On  God,  with  me  amidst  these  deserts  mourn; 
Repent,  repent,  and  from  old  errors  turn ! 
—Who  listen'd  to  his  voice,  obey'd  his  cry? 
Only  the  echoes,  which  he  made  relent, 
Rung  from  their  marble  caves  'Repent!    Repent!' 

GILES    FLETCHER 
233.  booing  Song  ^ 

T  OVE  is  the  blossom  where  there  blows 
•L'     Every  thing  that  lives  or  grows: 
Love  doth  make  the  Heav'ns  to  move, 
And  the  Sun  doth  burn  in  love: 


GILES  FLETCHER 

Love  the  strong  and  weak  doth  yoke, 
And  makes  the  ivy  climb  the  oak, 
Under  whose  shadows  lions  wild, 
Soften'd  by  love,  grow  tame  and  mild  : 
Love  no  med'cine  can  appease, 
He  burns  the  fishes  in  the  seas : 
Not  all  the  skill  his  wounds  can  stench, 
Not  all  the  sea  his  fire  can  quench. 
Love  did  make  the  bloody  spear 
Once  a  leavy  coat  to  wear, 
While  in  his  leaves  there  shrouded  lay 
Sweet  birds,   for  love  that  sing  and  play 
And  of  all  love's  joyful  flame 
I  the  bud  and  blossom  am. 

Only  bend  thy  knee  to  me, 

Thy  wooing  shall  thy  winning  be  I 

See,   see  the  flowers  that  below 
Now  as  fresh  as  morning  blow; 
And  of  all  the  virgin  rose 
That  as  bright  Aurora  shows  ; 
How  they  all  unleaved  die, 
Losing  their  virginity  ! 
Like  unto  a  summer  shade, 
But  now  born,  and  now  they  fade. 
Every  thing  doth  pass  away ; 
There  is  danger  in  delay : 
Come,  come,  gather  then  the  rose, 
Gather  it,  or  it  you  lose  ! 
All  the  sand  of  Tagus*  shore 
Into  my  bosom  casts  his  ore : 
All  the  valleys'  swimming  corn 
To  my  house  is  yearly  borne  : 

tgi 


GILES  FLETCHER 

Every  grape  of  every  vine 
Is  gladly  bruised  to  make  me  wine: 
While  ten  thousand  kings,  as  proud, 
To  carry  up  my  train  have  bow'd, 
And  a  world  of  ladies  send  me 
In  my  chambers  to  attend  me: 
All  the  stars  in  Heav'n  that  shine, 
And  ten  thousand  more,  are  mine: 
Only  bend  thy  knee  to  me, 
Thy  wooing  shall  thy  winning  be 


M 


FRANCIS   BEAUMONT 

On  the  Tombs  in  Westminster  Atoey 

1586-16* 

ORTALITY,  behold  and  fear! 

What  a  change  of  flesh  is  here  ! 
Think  how  many  royal  bones 
Sleep  within  this  heap  of  stones: 
Here  they  lie  had  realms  and  lands, 
Who  now  want  strength  to  stir  their  hands: 
Where  from  their  pulpits  seal'd  with  dust 
They  preach,   'In  greatness  is  no  trust.' 
Here's  an  acre  sown  indeed 
With  the  richest,  royalPst  seed 
That  the  earth  did  e'er  suck  in 
Since  the  first  man  died  for  sin: 
Here  the  bones  of  birth  have  cried— 
'Though  gods  they  were,  as  men  they  died.' 
Here  are  sands,  ignoble  things, 
Dropt  from  the  ruin'd  sides  of  kings  ; 
Here's  a  world  of  pomp  and  state, 
Buried  in  dust,  once  dead  by  fate. 


JOHN   FORD 

23?' 

1586-1639 

CLY  hence,  shadows,  that  do  keep 

Watchful  sorrows  charm'd  in  sleep ! 

Tho'  the  eyes  be  overtaken, 

Yet  the  heart  doth  ever  waken 

Thoughts  chain'd  up  in  busy  snares 

Of  continual  woes  and  cares: 

Love  and  griefs  are  so  exprest 

As  they  rather  sigh  than  rest. 

Fly  hence,   shadows,  that  do  keep 
Watchful  sorrows  charm'd  in  sleep  I 

GEORGE   WITHER 

2$  6*  I  loved  a  Lass 

1588-1667 

T    LOVED  a  lass,  a  fair  one, 
•••      As  fair  as  e'er  was  seen; 
She  was  indeed  a  rare  one, 

Another  Sheba  Queen: 
But,   fool  as  then  I  was, 

I  thought  she  loved  me  too : 
But  now,  alas!    she's  left  me, 

Falero,   lero,   loo  / 

Her  hair  like  gold  did  glister, 

Each  eye  was  like  a  star, 
She  did  surpass  her  sister, 

Which  pass'd  all  others  far; 
She  would  me  honey  call, 

She'd— O  she'd  kiss  me  tool 
But  now,   alas !    she 's  left  me, 

Fa/ero,   lero,  loo  ! 


GEORGE  WITHER 

Many  a  merry  meeting 

My  love  and  I  have  had ; 
She  was  my  only  sweeting, 

She  made  my  heart  full  glad ; 
The  tears  stood  in  her  eyes 

Like  to  the  morning  dew: 
But  now,  alas !    she 's  left  me, 

Falero,   lero,   loo! 

Her  cheeks  were  like  the  cherry, 

Her  skin  was  white  as  snow ; 
When  she  was  blithe  and  merry 

She  angel-like  did  show; 
Her  waist  exceeding  small, 

The  fives  did  fit  her  shoe: 
But  now,  alas !    she  's  left  me, 

Fa/ero,   /era,  loo  / 

In  summer  time  or  winter 

She  had  her  heart's  desire ; 
I  still  did  scorn  to  stint  her 

From  sugar,  sack,  or  fire; 
The  world  went  round  about, 

No  cares  we  ever  knew  : 
But  now,  alas !    she 's  left  me, 

Falero,   lero,   loo  ! 

To  maidens'  vows  and  swearing 

Henceforth  no  credit  give ; 
You  may  give  them  the  hearing, 

But  never  them  believe ; 
They  are  as  false  as  fair, 

Unconstant,  frail,  untrue: 
For  mine,  alas !    hath  left  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo  ! 
454 


GEORGE  WITHER 


The  Lever's  Resolution 

OH  ALL  I,  wasting  in  despair, 
^     Die  because  a  woman  's  fair  ? 
Or  make  pale  my  cheeks  with  care 
'Cause  another's  rosy  are  ? 
Be  she  fairer  than  the  day, 
Or  the  flow'ry  meads   in  May, 
If  she  think  not  well  of  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be? 

Shall  my  silly  heart  be  pined 
'Cause  I  see  a  woman  kind  ? 
Or  a  well  disposed  nature 
Joined  with  a  lovely  feature  ? 
Be  she  meeker,   kinder,  than 
Turtle-dove  or  pelican, 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  kind  she  be? 

Shall  a  woman's  virtues  move 
Me  to  perish  for  her  love  ? 
Or  her  well-deservings  known 
Make  me  quite  forget  my  own  ? 
Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest 
Which  may  merit  name  of  Best, 
If  she  be  not  such  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  good  she  be  ? 

'Cause  her  fortune  seems  too  high, 
Shall  I  play  the  fool  and  die? 
She  that  bears  a  noble  mind, 
If  not  outward  helps  she  find, 


GEORGE  WITHER 

Thinks  what  with  them  he  would  do 
That  without  them  dares  her  woo; 
And  unless  that  mind  I  see, 
What  care  I  how  great  she  be? 

Great,  or  good,  or  kind,  or  fair, 
I  will  ne'er  the  more  despair; 
If  she  love  me,  this  believe, 
I  will  die  ere  she  shall  grieve; 
If  she  slight  me  when  I  woo, 
I  can  scorn  and  let  her  go ; 
For  if  she  be  not  for  me, 
What  care  I  for  whom  she  be  ? 


2}8.  The  Choice 

TVyf  E  so  oft  my  fancy  drew 

•*•'•*•      Here  and  there,  that  I  ne'er  knew 

Where  to  place  desire  before 

So  that  range  it  might  no  more ; 

But  as  he  that  passeth  by 

Where,  in  all  her  jollity, 

Flora's  riches  in  a  row 

Do  in  seemly  order  grow, 

And  a  thousand  flowers  stand 

Bending  as  to  kiss  his  hand ; 

Out  of  which  delightful  store 

One  he  may  take  and  no  more; 

Long  he  pausing  doubteth  whether 

Of  those  fair  ones  he  should  gather. 

First  the  Primrose  courts  his  eyes, 
Then  the  Cowslip  he  espies ; 


GEORGE  WITHER 

Next  the  Pansy  seems  to  woo  him, 
Then  Carnations  bow  unto  him ; 
Which  whilst  that  enamour'd  swain 
From  the  stalk  intends  to  strain, 
(As  half-fearing  to  be  seen) 
Prettily  her  leaves  between 
Peeps  the  Violet,  pale  to  see 
That  her  virtues  slighted  be ; 
Which  so  much  his  liking  wins 
That  to  seize  her  he  begins. 

Yet  before  he  stoop'd  so  low 
He  his  wanton  eye  did  throw 
On  a  stem  that  grew  more  high, 
And  the  Rose  did  there  espy. 
Who,  beside  her  previous  scent, 
To  procure  his  eyes  content 
Did  display  her  goodly  breast, 
Where  he  found  at  full  exprest 
All  the  good  that  Nature  showers 
On  a  thousand  other  flowers; 
Wherewith  he  affected  takes  it, 
His  beloved  flower  he  makes  it, 
And  without  desire  of  more 
Walks  through  all  he  saw  before. 

So  I  wand'ring  but  erewhile 

Through  the  garden  of  this  Isle, 

Saw  rich  beauties,   I  confess, 

And  in  number  numberless. 

Yea,  so  differing  lovely  too, 

That  I  had  a  world  to  do 

Ere  I  could  set  up  my  rest, 

Where  to  choose  and  choose  the  best. 


GEORGE  WITHER 

Thus  I  fondly  fear'd,  till  Fate 
(Which  I  must  confess  in  that 
Did  a  greater  favour  to  me 
Than  the  world  can  malice  do  me) 
Show'd  to  me  that  matchless  flower, 
Subject  for  this  song  of  our; 
Whose  perfection  having  eyed, 
Reason  instantly  espied 
That  Desire,   which  ranged  abroad, 
There  would  find  a  period : 
And  no  marvel  if  it  might, 
For  it  there  hath  all  delight, 
And  in  her  hath  nature  placed 
What  each  several  fair  one  graced. 


Let  who  list,  for  me,  advance 
The  admired  flowers  of  France, 
Let  who  will  praise  and  behold 
The  reserved  Marigold ; 
Let  the  sweet-breath'd  Violet  now 
Unto  whom  she  pleaseth  bow ; 
And  the  fairest  Lily  spread 
Where  she  will  her  golden  head; 
1  have  such  a  flower  to  wear 
That  for  those  I  do  not  care. 

Let  the  young  and  happy  swains 
Playing  on  the  Britain  plains 
Court  unblamed  their  shepherdesses, 
And  with  their  gold  curled  tresses 
Toy  uncensured,  until  I 
Grudge  at  their  prosperity. 


GEORGE  WITHER 

Let  all  times,  both  present,  past, 
And  the  age  that  shall  be  last, 
Vaunt  the  beauties  they  bring  forth. 
I  have  found  in  one  such  worth, 
That  content  I  neither  care 
What  the  best  before  me  were; 
Nor  desire  to  live  and  see 
Who  shall  fair  hereafter  be; 
For  I  know  the  hand  of  Nature 
Will  not  make  a  fairer  creature. 


239.  A  Widow's  ffymn 

I_JOW  near  me  came  the  hand  of  Death, 
When  at  my  side  he  struck  my  dear, 
And  took  away  the  precious  breath 
Which  quicken'd  my  beloved  peer ! 
How  helpless  am  I  thereby  made ! 
By  day  how  grieved,   by  night  how  sad ! 
And  now  my  life's  delight  is  gone, 
— Alas  !    how  am  I  left  alone ! 

The  voice  which  I  did  more  esteem 

Than  music  in  her  sweetest  key, 

Those  eyes  which  unto  me  did  seem 

More  comfortable  than  the  day ; 

Those  now  by  me,  as  they  have  been, 
Shall  never  more  be  heard  or  seen ; 
But  what  I  once  enjoy'd  in  them 
Shall  seem  hereafter  as  a  dream. 

ajg.  peer]  companion. 


GEORGE  WITHER 

Lord!    keep  me  faithful  to  the  trust 

Which  my  dear  spouse  reposed  in  me: 
To  him  now  dead  preserve  me  just 
In  all  that  should  performed  be! 
For  though  our  being  man  and  wife 
Extendeth  only  to  this  life, 
Yet  neither  life  nor  death  should  end 
The  being  of  a  faithful  friend. 


WILLIAM   BROWNE,   OF   TAVISTOCK 

1588-1643 


240.  A  Welcome 


~fJTELCOME,   -welcome  !    do  I  sing, 
**      Far  more  'welcome  than  the  spring; 
He  that  parteth  from  you  never 
Shall  enjoy  a  spring  for  ever. 

He  that  to  the  voice  is  near 

Breaking  from  your  iv'ry  pale, 
Need  not  walk  abroad  to  hear 

The  delightful  nightingale. 

Welcome,   welcome,  then  .  . 

He  that  looks  still  on  your  eyes, 

Though  the  winter  have  begun 
To  benumb  our  arteries, 

Shall  not  want  the  summer's  sun. 

Welcome,   welcome,    then  .   . 

He  that  still  may  see  your  cheeks, 
Where  all  rareness  still  reposes, 
Is  a  fool  if  e'er  he  seeks 
Other  lilies,  other  roses. 

Welcome,   welcome,   then  .   . 
«6o 


WILLIAM  BROWNE 

He  to  whom  your  soft  lip  yields, 
And  perceives  your  breath  in  kissing, 

All  the  odours  of  the  fields 
Never,  never  shall  be  missing. 

Welcome,   welcome,   then 

He  that  question  would  anew 

What  fair  Eden  was  of  old, 
Let  him  rightly  study  you, 

And  a  brief  of  that  behold. 

Welcome,  welcome,  then 


S' 


241.  The  Sirens'  Song 

^TEER,   hither  steer  your  winged  pines, 

All  beaten  mariners! 
Here  lie  Love's  undiscover'd  mines, 

A  prey  to  passengers — 
Perfumes  far  sweeter  than  the  best 
Which  make  the  Phoenix'  urn  and  nest. 

Fear  not  your  ships, 
Nor  any  to  oppose  you  save  our  lips ; 

But  come  on  shore, 
Where  no  joy  dies  till  Love  hath  gotten  more. 

For  swelling  waves  our  panting  breasts, 

Where  never  storms  arise, 
Exchange,  and  be  awhile  our  guests : 

For  stars  gaze  on  our  eyes. 
The  compass  Love  shall  hourly  sing, 
And  as  he  goes  about  the  ring, 

We  will  not  miss 
To  tell  each  point  he  nameth  with  a  kiss. 

— Then  come  on  shore, 

Where  no  joy  dies  till   Love  hath  gotten  more. 

261 


WILLIAM  BROWNE 


242.  The  Rose 

A    ROSE,  as  fair  as  ever  saw  the  North, 
**'     Grew  in  a  little  garden  all  alone; 
A  sweeter  flower  did  Nature  ne'er  put  forth, 
Nor  fairer  garden  yet  was  never  known : 
The  maidens  danced  about  it  morn  and  noon, 
And  learned  bards  of  it  their  ditties  made ; 
The  nimble  fairies  by  the  pale-faced  moon 
Water'd  the  root  and  kiss'd  her  pretty  shade. 
But  well-a-day  ! — the  gardener  careless  grew ; 
The  maids  and  fairies  both  were  kept  away, 
And  in  a  drought  the  caterpillars  threw 
Themselves  upon  the  bud  and  every  spray. 

God  shield  the  stock!    If  heaven  send  no  supplies 
The  fairest  blossom  of  the  garden  dies. 


.  Song 

pOR  her  gait,  if  she  be  walking; 

Be  she  sitting,  I  desire  her 
For  her  state's  sake;    and  admire  her 
For  her  wit  if  she  be  talking; 

Gait  and  state  and  wit  approve  her; 

For  which  all  and  each  I  love  her. 

Be  she  sullen,   I  commend  her 
For  a  modest.     Be  she  merry, 
For  a  kind  one  her  prefer  I. 
Briefly,  everything  doth  lend  her 

So  much  grace,  and  so  approve  her, 
That  for  everything  I  love  her. 
263 


WILLIAM  BROWNE 


244.  Memory 

00  shuts  the  marigold  her  leaves 
^      At  the  departure  of  the  sun  ; 
So  from  the  honeysuckle  sheaves 

The  bee  goes  when  the  day  is  done  ; 
So  sits  the  turtle  when  she  is  but  one, 
And  so  all  woe,  as  I  since  she  is  gone. 

To  some  few  birds  kind  Nature  hath 
Made  all  the  summer  as  one  day: 

Which  once  enjoy'd,   cold  winter's  wrath 
As  night  they  sleeping  pass  away. 

Those  happy  creatures  are,  that  know  not  yet 

The  pain  to  be  deprived  or  to  forget. 

1  oft  have  heard  men  say  there  be 
Some  that  with  confidence  profess 

The  helpful  Art  of  Memory : 

But  could  they  teach  Forgetfulness, 
I'd  learn ;    and  try  what  further  art  could  do 
To  make  me  love  her  and  forget  her  too. 


Epitaphs 

24?.          In  Obltum  M.S.   X"  Maij,   1614 

AY !     Be  thou  never  graced  with  birds  that  sing, 


M 


Nor  Flora's  pride ! 
In  thee  all  flowers  and  roses  spring, 
Mine  only  died. 


U 


WILLIAM  BROWNE 

24.6.      On  the  Countess  Dowager  of  Pembroke 

PNDERNEATH  this  sable  herse 

Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse: 
Sidney's  sister,   Pembroke's  mother: 
Death,  ere  thou  hast  slain  another 
Fair  and  learn'd  and  good  as  she, 
Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee. 

ROBERT   HERRICK 

247.         Corinnas  going  a-Maying 

1551-1674 

GET  up,  get  up  for  shame !     The  blooming  morn 
Upon  her  wings  presents  the  god  unshorn. 
See  how  Aurora  throws  her  fair 
Fresh-quilted  colours  through  the  air: 
Get  up,  sweet  slug-a-bed,  and  see 
The  dew  bespangling  herb  and  tree ! 
Each  flower  has  wept  and  bow'd  toward  the  east 
Above  an  hour  since,  yet  you  not  drest; 
Nay  !    not  so  much  as  out  of  bed  ? 
When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said 
And  sung  their  thankful  hymns,   'tis  sin, 
Nay,  profanation,  to  keep  in, 
Whereas  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day 
Spring  sooner  than  the  lark,  to  fetch  in  May. 

Rise  and  put  on  your  foliage,  and  be  seen 

To  come  forth,  like  the  spring-time,  fresh  and  green, 

And  sweet  as  Flora.     Take  no  care 

For  jewels  for  your  gown  or  hair: 

Fear  not;    the  leaves  will  strew 

Gems  in  abundance  upon  you : 

264 


ROBERT  HERRICK 

Besides,  the  childhood  of  the  day  has  kept, 
Against  you  come,   some  orient  pearls  unwept. 

Come,   and  receive  them  while  the  light 

Hangs  on  the  dew-locks  of  the  night: 

And  Titan  on  the  eastern  hill 

Retires  himself,  or  else  stands  still 

Till  you  come  forth !    Wash,  dress,  be  brief  in  praying ; 
Few  beads  are  best  when  once  we  go  a-Maying. 

Come,  my  Corinna,   come ;    and  coming,   mark 
How  each  field  turns  a  street,  each  street  a  park, 

Made  green  and  trimm'd  with  trees !    see  how 

Devotion  gives  each  house  a  bough 

Or  branch !    each  porch,  each  door,  ere  this, 

An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is, 
Made  up  of  white-thorn  neatly  interwove, 
As  if  here  were  those  cooler  shades  of  love. 

Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street 

And  open  fields,  and  we  not  see 't  ? 

Come,  we'll  abroad :    and  let 's  obey 

The  proclamation  made  for  May, 
And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done,  by  staying ; 
But,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-Maying. 

There 's  not  a  budding  boy  or  girl  this  day 
But  is  got  up  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 

A  deal  of  youth  ere  this  is  come 

Back,   and  with  white-thorn  laden  home. 

Some  have  despatch'd  their  cakes  and  cream, 

Before  that  we  have  left  to  dream: 
And  some  have  wept  and  woo'd,   and  plighted  troth, 
And  chose  their  priest,  ere  we  can  cast  off  sloth : 

beads]  prayers. 

K3  265 


ROBERT  HERRICK 

Many  a  green-gown  has  been  given, 

Many  a  kiss,  both  odd  and  even : 

Many  a  glance,  too,  has  been  sent 

From  out  the  eye,  love's  firmament: 
Many  a  jest  told  of  the  keys  betraying 
This  night,  and  locks  pick'd:    yet  we're  not  a-Maying ! 

Come,  let  us  go,  while  we  are  in  our  prime, 
And  take  the  harmless  folly  of  the  time ! 

We  shall  grow  old  apace,   and  die 

Before  we  know  our  liberty. 

Our  life  is  short,  and  our  days  run 

As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun. 
And,  as  a  vapour  or  a  drop  of  rain, 
Once  lost,  can  ne'er  be  found  again, 

So  when  or  you  or  I  are  made 

A  fable,  song,  or  fleeting  shade, 

All  love,  all  liking,  all  delight 

Lies  drown'd  with  us  in  endless  night. 
Then,  while  time  serves,  and  we  are  but  decaying, 
Come,  my  Corinna,   come,  let 's  go  a-Maying. 

248.   To  the  Virgins,  to  make  much  of  Time 

^  ATHER  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may, 
^-*     Old  Time  is  still  a-flying: 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day 
To-morrow  will  be  dying. 

The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the  sun, 

The  higher  he's  a-getting, 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run, 

And  nearer  he's  to  setting. 

247.  green -gown]  tumble  on  the  grass. 
•66 


ROBERT  HERRICK 

That  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 
When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer; 

But  being  spent,  the  worse,  and  worst 
Times  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time, 
And  while  ye  may,  go  marry : 

For  having  lost  but  once  your  prime, 
You  may  for  ever  tarry. 


249.          To  the  Western  Wind 

OWEET  western  wind,   whose  luck  it  is, 
^     Made  rival  with  the  air, 
To  give  Perenna's  lip  a  kiss, 
And  fan  her  wanton  hair: 

Bring  me  but  one,   I'll  promise  thee, 

Instead  of  common  showers, 
Thy  wings  shall  be  embalm'd  by  me, 

And  all  beset  with  flowers. 


2fO.  To  Electro, 

T  DARE  not  ask  a  kiss, 
*•  I  dare  not  beg  a  smile, 
Lest  having  that,  or  this, 

I  might  grow  proud  the  while. 

No,  no,  the  utmost  share 
Of  my  desire  shall  be 

Only  to  kiss  that  air 
That  lately  kissed  thee. 


ROBERT  HERRICK 

To  fiolets 

WfELCOME,  maids  of  honour! 
**       You  do  bring 

In  the  spring, 
And  wait  upon  her. 

She  has  virgins  many, 

Fresh  and  fair; 

Yet  you  are 
More  sweet  than  any. 

You're  the  maiden  posies, 

And  so  graced 

To  be  placed 
'Fore  damask  roses. 

Yet,  though  thus  respected, 

By-and-by 

Ye  do   lie, 
Poor  girls,   neglected. 

To  Daffodils 

1C  AIR  daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 
•*•        You  haste  away  so  soon; 
As  yet  the  early-rising  sun 
Has  not  attain'd  his  noon. 

Stay,  stay 
Until  the  hasting  day 

Has  run 

But  to  the  evensong ; 
And,  having  pray'd  together,   we 
Will  go  with  you  along. 


ROBERT  HERRICK 

We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you, 

We  have  as  short  a  spring ; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay, 
As  you,  or  anything. 

We  die 
As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

Away 

Like  to  the  summer's  rain; 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  de\v 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 


To  Blossoms 

FAIR  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree, 
Why  do  ye  fall  so  fast? 
Your  date  is  not  so  past 
But  you  may  stay  yet  here  awhile 
To  blush  and  gently  smile, 
And  go  at  last. 

What!   were  ye  born  to  be 
An  hour  or  half's  delight, 
And  so  to  bid  good  night  ? 

'Twas  pity  Nature  brought  you  forth 
Merely  to  show  your  worth 
And  lose  you  quite. 

But  you  are  lovely  leaves,   where  we 
May  read  how  soon  things  have 
Their  end,  though  ne'er  so  brave: 

And  after  they  have  shown  their  pride 
Like  you  awhile,  they  glide 
Into  the  grave. 


ROBERT  HERRICK 
The  Primrose 

ASK  me  why  I  send  you  here 
•**     This  sweet  Infanta  of  the  year  ? 
Ask  me  why  I  send  to  you 
This  primrose,  thus  bepearl'd  with  dew  ? 
I  will  whisper  to  your  ears  : — 
The  sweets  of  love  are  mix'd  with  tears 

Ask  me  why  this  flower  does  show 
So  yellow-green,  and  sickly  too? 
Ask  me  why  the  stalk  is  weak 
And  bending  (yet  it  doth  not  break)? 
I  will  answer : — These  discover 
What  fainting  hopes  are  in  a  lover. 

2jj.   The  Funeral  Rites  of  the  Rose 

""THE   Rose  was  sick  and  smiling  died; 
•*•     And,  being  to  be  sanctified, 
About  the  bed  there  sighing  stood 
The  sweet  and  flowery  sisterhood : 
Some  hung  the  head,  while  some  did  bring, 
To  wash  her,   water  from  the  spring ; 
Some  laid  her  forth,  while  others  wept, 
But  all  a  solemn  fast  there  kept: 
The  holy  sisters,  some  among, 
The  sacred  dirge  and  trental  sung. 
But  ah !    what  sweets  smelt  everywhere, 
As  Heaven  had  spent  all  perfumes  there. 
At  last,  when  prayers  for  the  dead 
And  rites  were  all  accomplished, 
They,  weeping,  spread  a  lawny  loom, 
And  closed  her  up  as  in  a  tomb. 
2//.  trental]  services  for  the  dead,  of  thirty  masses. 


ROBERT  HERRICK 


2f6.  Cherry-Ripe 

CHERRY-RIPE,   ripe,  ripe,  I  cry, 
^— **      Full  and  fair  ones;    come  and  buy. 
If  so  be  you  ask  me  where 
They  do  grow,   I  answer:    There 
Where  my  Julia's  lips  do  smile; 
There's  the  land,  or  cherry-isle, 
Whose  plantations  fully  show 
All  the  year  where  cherries  grow. 


A  Meditation  for  his  Mistress 

VOU  are  a  tulip  seen  to-day, 
*     But,  dearest,  of  so  short  a  stay 
That  where  you  grew  scarce  man  can  say. 

You  are  a  lovely  July-flower, 

Yet  one  rude  wind  or  ruffling  shower 

Will  force  you  hence,  and  in  an  hour. 

You  are  a  sparkling  rose  i*  th'  bud, 
Yet  lost  ere  that  chaste  flesh  and  blood 
Can  show  where  you  or  grew  or  stood. 

You  are  a  full-spread,  fair-set  vine, 
And  can  with  tendrils  love  entwine, 
Yet  dried  ere  you  distil  your  wine. 

You  are  like  balm  enclosed  well 
In  amber  or  some  crystal  shell, 
Yet  lost  ere  you  transfuse  your  smell. 


ROBERT  HERRICK 

You  are  a  dainty  violet, 

Yet  wither'd  ere  you  can  be  set 

Within  the  virgin's  coronet. 

You  are  the  queen  all  flowers  among ; 
But  die  you  must,  fair  maid,  ere  long, 
As  he,  the  maker  of  this  song. 

2f8.  "Delight  in  'Disorder 

A     SWEET  disorder  in  the  dress 
•**•     Kindles  in  clothes  a  wantonness: 
A  lawn  about  the  shoulders  thrown 
Into  a  fine  distraction : 
An  erring  lace,   which  here  and  there 
Enthrals  the  crimson  stomacher: 
A  cuff  neglectful,   and  thereby 
Ribbands  to  flow  confusedly : 
A  winning  wave,  deserving  note, 
In  the  tempestuous  petticoat : 
A  careless  shoe-string,  in  whose  tie 
I  see  a  wild  civility : 
Do  more  bewitch  me  than  when  art 
Is  too  precise  in  every  part. 

2?9-  Upon  Julia's  Clothes 

WTHENAS  in  silks  my  Julia  goes, 

Then,  then,  methinks,  how  sweetly  flows 
The  liquefaction  of  her  clothes  ! 

Next,  when  I  cast  mine  eyes  and  see 
That  brave  vibration  each  way  free, 
— O  how  that  glittering  taketh  me! 
373 


ROBERT  HERRICK 


260.         The  Bracelet:    To  Julia 

Y  I  tie  about  thy  wrist, 
Julia,  this  silken  twist; 
For  what  other  reason  is 't 
But  to  show  thee  how,  in  part, 
Thou  my  pretty  captive  art? 
But  thy  bond-slave  is  my  heart: 
'Tis  but  silk  that  bindeth  thee, 
Knap  the  thread  and  thou  art  free; 
But  'tis  otherwise  with  me : 
— I  am  bound  and  fast  bound,  so 
That  from  thee  I  cannot  go ; 
If  I  could,   I  would  not  so. 


261.    To  'Daisies,  not  to  shut  so  soon 

CHUT  not  so  soon;    the  dull-eyed  nighl 
^     Has  not  as  yet  begun 
To  make  a  seizure  on  the  light, 
Or  to  seal  up  the  sun. 

No  marigolds  yet  closed  are, 

No  shadows  great  appear; 
Nor  doth  the  early  shepherd's  star 

Shine  like  a  spangle  here. 

Stay  but  till  my  Julia  close 

Her  life-begetting  eye, 
And  let  the  whole  world  then  dispose 

Itself  to  live  or  die. 


ROBERT  HERRICK 
262.      The  Night-piece:    To  Julia 

HER  eyes  the  glow-worm  lend  thee, 
The  shooting  stars  attend  thee; 
And  the  elves  also, 
Whose  little  eyes  glow 
Like  the  sparks  of  fire,  befriend  thee. 

No  Will-o'-the-wisp  mislight  thee, 
Nor  snake  or  slow-worm  bite  thee; 

But  on,  on  thy  way 

Not  making  a  stay, 
Since  ghost  there's  none  to  affright  thee. 

Let  not  the  dark  thee  cumber : 
What  though  the  moon  does  slumber? 
The  stars  of  the  night 
Will  lend  thee  their  light 
Like  tapers  clear  without  number. 

Then,  Julia,   let  me  woo  thee, 
Thus,  thus  to  come  unto  me; 

And  when  I  shall  meet 

Thy  silv'ry  feet, 
My  soul  I'll  pour  into  thee. 

26$.  To  Musk,  to  becalm  his  Fever 

/'~>HARM  me  asleep,  and  melt  me  so 
^•"•'      With  thy  delicious  numbers, 
That,  being  ravish'd,  hence  I  go 
Away  in  easy  slumbers. 
Ease  my  sick  head, 
And  make  my  bed, 


ROBERT  HERRICK 

Thou  power  that  canst  sever 
From  me  this  ill, 
And  quickly  still, 
Though  thou  not  kill 
My  fever. 

Thou  sweetly  canst  convert  the  same 

From  a  consuming  fire 
Into  a  gentle  licking  flame, 
And  make  it  thus  expire. 
Then  make  me  weep 
My  pains  asleep ; 
And  give  me  such  reposes 
That  I,   poor  I, 
May  think  thereby 
I  live  and  die 
'Mongst  roses. 

Fall  on  me  like  the  silent  dew, 
Or  like  those  maiden  showers 
Which,  by  the  peep  of  day,  do  strew 
A  baptim  o'er  the  flowers. 
Melt,   melt  my  pains 
With  thy  soft  strains ; 
That,  having  ease  me  given. 
With  full  delight 
I  leave  this  light, 
And  take  my  flight 
For  Heaven. 


ROBERT  HERRICK 


264.  To  'Diancme 

CWEET,  be  not  proud  of  those  two  eyes 
^     Which  starlike  sparkle  in  their  skies; 
Nor  be  you  proud  that  you  can  see 
All  hearts  your  captives,  yours  yet  free ; 
Be  you  not  proud  of  that  rich  hair 
Which  wantons  with  the  love-sick  air; 
Whenas  that  ruby  which  you  wear, 
Sunk  from  the  tip  of  your  soft  ear, 
Will  last  to  be  a  precious  stone 
When  all  your  world  of  beauty's  gone. 


26 f.  To  CEnone 

"W7HAT  conscience,  say,  is  it  in  thee, 

W       When  I  a  heart  had  one, 
To  take  away  that  heart  from  me, 
And  to  retain  thy  own  ? 

For  shame  or  pity  now  incline 

To  play  a  loving  part; 
Either  to  send  me  kindly  thine, 

Or  give  me  back  my  heart. 

Covet  not  both ;    but  if  thou  dost 
Resolve  to  part  with  neither, 

Why,  yet  to  show  that  thou  art  just, 
Take  me  and  mine  together! 


ROBERT  HERRICK 

266.  To  Anthea,  who  may  command 
him  Anything 

ID  ID  me  to  live,  and  I  will  live 
*-*      Thy  Protestant  to  be; 
Or  bid  me  love,  and  I  will  give 
A  loving  heart  to  thee. 

A  heart  as  soft,  a  heart  as  kind, 
A  heart  as  sound  and  free 

As  in  the  whole  world  thou  canst  find. 
That  heart  I'll  give  to  thee. 

Bid  that  heart  stay,  and  it  will  stay 

To  honour  thy  decree : 
Or  bid  it  languish  quite  away, 

And 't  shall  do  so  for  thee. 

Bid  me  to  weep,  and  I  will  weep 
While  I  have  eyes  to  see: 

And,  having  none,  yet  will  I  keep 
A  heart  to  weep  for  thee. 

Bid  me  despair,  and  I'll  despair 

Under  that  cypress-tree : 
Or  bid  me  die,  and  I  will  dare 

E'en  death  to  die  for  thee. 

Thou  art  my  life,  my  love,  my  heart, 

The  very  eyes  of  me : 
And  hast  command  of  every  part 

To  live  and  die  for  thee. 


ROBERT  HERRICK 


267.  To  the  Willow-tree 

T^HOU  art  to  all  lost  love  the  best, 
•*•     The  only  true  plant  found, 
Wherewith  young  men  and  maids  distrest, 
And  left  of  love,  are  crown'd. 

When  once  the  lover's  rose  is  dead, 

Or  laid  aside  forlorn  : 
Then  willow-garlands  'bout  the  head 

Bedew'd  with  tears  are  worn. 

When  with  neglect,  the  lovers'  bane, 

Poor  maids  rewarded  be 
For  their  love  lost,  their  only  gain 

Is  but  a  wreath  from  thee. 

And  underneath  thy  cooling  shade, 

When  weary  of  the  light, 
The  love-spent  youth  and  love-sick  maid 

Come  to  weep  out  the  night. 


268.          The  Mad  Maid's  Song 

/^OOD-MORROW  to  the  day  so  fair, 
^-*     Good-morning,   sir,   to  you ; 
Good-morrow  to  mine  own  torn  hair 
Bedabbled  with  the  dew. 

Good-morning  to  this  primrose  too, 

Good-morrow  to  each  maid 
That  will  with  flowers  the  tomb  bestrew 

Wherein  my  love  is  laid. 
278 


ROBERT  HERRICK 

Ah !  woe  is  me,  woe,  woe  is  me ! 

Alack  and  well-a-day ! 
For  pity,   sir,  find  out  that  bee 

Which  bore  my  love  away. 
I'll  seek  him  in  your  bonnet  brave, 

I'll  seek  him  in  your  eyes; 
Nay,  now  I  think  they've  made  his  grave 

P  th'  bed  of  strawberries. 
I'll  seek  him  there;    I  know  ere  this 

The  cold,  cold  earth  doth  shake  him; 
But  I  will  go,  or  send  a  kiss 

By  you,  sir,  to  awake  him. 
Pray  hurt  him  not;   though  he  be  dead, 

He  knows  well  who  do  love  him, 
And  who  with  green  turfs  rear  his  head, 

And  who  do  rudely  move  him. 
He's  soft  and  tender  (pray  take  heed); 

With  bands  of  cowslips  bind  him, 
And  bring  him  home — but  'tis  decreed 

That  I  shall  never  find  him ! 

26p.  Comfort  to  a   Touth  that  had  lost 
his  Love 

VS77HAT  needs  complaints, 
W       When  she  a  place 
Has  with  the  race 
Of  saints  ? 

In  endless  mirth 
She  thinks  not  on 
What's  said  or  done 
In  Earth. 


ROBERT  HERRICK 

She  sees  no  tears, 
Or  any  tone 
Of  thy  deep  groan 
She  hears : 

Nor  does  she  mind 
Or  think  on  't  now 
That  ever  thou 
Wast  kind; 

But  changed  above, 
She  likes  not  there., 
As  she  did  here, 
Thy  love. 

Forbear  therefore, 
And  lull  asleep 
Thy  woes,  and  weep 
No  more. 

270.  To  Meadows 

\^E  have  been  fresh  and  green, 
•*•       Ye  have  been  fill'd  with  flowers, 
And  ye  the  walks  have  been 

Where  maids  have  spent  their  hours. 

You  have  beheld  how  they 
With  wicker  arks  did  come 

To  kiss  and  bear  away 
The  richer  cowslips  home. 

You've  heard  them  sweetly  sing, 
And  seen  them  in  a  round: 

Each  virgin  like  a  spring, 

With  honeysuckles  crown'd. 
280 


ROBERT  HERRICK 

But  now  we  see  none  here 

Whose  silv'ry  feet  did  tread 
And  with  dishevell'd  hair 

Adorn'd  this  smoother  mead. 
Like  unthrifts,   having  spent 

Your  stock  and  needy  grown., 
You're  left  here  to  lament 

Your  poor  estates,   alone. 

27 1.  A  Child's  Grace 
LJERE  a  little  child  I   stand 

Heaving  up  my  either  hand , 
Cold  as  paddocks  though  they  be, 
Here  I  lift  them  up  to  Thee, 
For  a  benison  to  fall 
On  our  meat  and  on  us  all.     Amen, 

272.  Epitaph 

upon  a   Child  that  died 
LJ  ERE  she  lies,  a  pretty  bud, 
**•      Lately  made  of  flesh  and  blood 
Who  as  soon  fell  fast  asleep 
As  her  little  eyes  did  peep. 
Give  her  strewings,   but  not  stir 
The  earth  that  lightly  covers  her. 

27$.  Another 

T_I  ERE  a  pretty  baby  lies 
•*•  *•      Sung  asleep  with  lullabies  j 
Pray  be  silent  and  not  stir 
Th*  easy  earth  that  covers  her. 
#77.  paddocks]  frogs. 

•Si 


ROBERT  HERRICK 
274.  His  Winding-sheet 

COME  thou,  who  art  the  wine  and  wit 
Of  all  I've  writ : 
The  grace,  the  glory,   and  the  best 

Piece  of  the  rest. 
Thou  art  of  what  I  did  intend 

The  all  and  end; 
And  what  was  made,  was  made  to  meet 

Thee,  thee,  my  sheet. 
Come  then  and  be  to  my  chaste  side 

Both  bed  and  bride : 
We  two,  as  reliques  left,  will  have 

One  rest,  one  grave: 
And  hugging  close,  we  will  not  fear 

Lust  entering  here: 
Where  all  desires  are  dead  and  cold 

As  is  the  mould  ; 
And  all  affections  are  forgot, 

Or  trouble  not. 
Here,  here,  the  slaves  and  prisoners  be 

From  shackles  free  : 
And  weeping  widows  long  oppress'd 

Do  here  find  rest. 
The  wronged  client  ends  his  laws 

Here,  and  his  cause. 
Here  those  long  suits  of  Chancery  lie 

Quiet,  or  die : 
And  all  Star-Chamber  bills  do  cease 

Or  hold  their  peace. 
Here  needs  no  Court  for  our  Request 

Where  all  are  best, 
All  wise,  all  equal,  and  all  just 

Alike  i'  th'  dust. 


ROBERT  HERRICK 

Nor  need  we  here  to  fear  the  frown 

Of  court  or  crown  : 
Where  fortune  bears  no  sway  o'er  things. 

There  all  are  kings. 
In  this  securer  place  we'll  keep 

As  lull'd  asleep  ; 
Or  for  a  little  time  we'll  lie 

As  robes  laid  by; 
To  be  another  day  re-worn, 

Turn'd,   but  not  torn : 
Or  like  old  testaments  engross'd, 

Lock'd  up,  not  lost. 
And  for  a  while  lie  here  conceal'd. 

To  be  reveal'd 
Next  at  the  great  Platonick  year, 

And  then  meet  here. 

27 ?.       Litany  to  the  Holy  Spirit 

TN  the  hour  of  my  distress, 

When  temptations  me  oppress, 
And  when  I  my  sins  confess, 

Sweet  Spirit,   comfort  me! 
When  I  lie  within  my  bed, 
Sick  in  heart  and  sick  in  head, 
And  with  doubts  discomforted, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  1 
When  the  house  doth  sigh  and  weep, 
And  the  world  is  drown'd  in  sleep, 
Yet  mine  eyes  the  watch  do  keep, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

274.  Platonick  year]  the  perfect  or  cyclic  year,  when  the  sun,  moon, 
and  five  planets  end  their  revolutions  together  and  start  anew. 
See  Timaus,  p.  39. 


ROBERT  HERRICK 

When  the  passing  bell  doth  toll, 
And  the  Furies  in  a  shoal 
Come  to  fright  a  parting  soul, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me! 

When  the  tapers  now  burn  blue, 
And  the  comforters  are  few, 
And  that  number  more  than  true, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me! 

When  the  priest  his  last  hath  pray'd, 
And  I  nod  to  what  is  said, 
'Cause  my  speech  is  now  decay'd, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me  1 

When,   God  knows,   I'm  toss'd  about 
Either  with  despair  or  doubt ; 
Yet  before  the  glass  be  out, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

When  the  tempter  me  pursu'th 
With  the  sins  of  all  my  youth, 
And  half  damns  me  with  untruth, 
Sweet  Spirit,   comfort  me ! 

When  the  flames  and  hellish  cries 
Fright  mine  ears  and  fright  mine  eyes, 
And  all  terrors  me  surprise, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

When  the  Judgment  is   reveal 'd, 
And  that  open'd  which  was  seal'd, 
When  to  Thee  I  have  appeal'd, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 
384 


FRANCIS  QUARLES 

27 6.  A  'Divine  Rapture 

1592-1644 
P'EN  like  two  little  bank-dividing  brooks, 

That  wash  the  pebbles  with  their  wanton  streams, 
And  having  ranged  and  search'd  a  thousand  nooks, 
Meet  both  at  length  in  silver-breasted  Thames, 

Where  in  a  greater  current  they  conjoin : 
So  I  my  Best-beloved's  am ;    so  He  is  mine. 

E'en  so  we  met;    and  after  long  pursuit, 

E'en  so  we  joined ;    we  both  became  entire ; 

No  need  for  either  to  renew  a  suit, 

For  I  was  flax,  and  He  was  flames  of  fire: 
Our  firm-united  souls  did  more  than  twine; 

So  I  my  Best-beloved's  am  ;   so  He  is  mine. 

If  all  those  glittering  Monarchs,   that  command 
The  servile  quarters  of  this  earthly  ball, 

Should  tender  in  exchange  their  shares  of  land, 
I  would  not  change  my  fortunes  for  them  all: 
Their  wealth  is  but  a  counter  to  my  coin  : 

The  world  's  but  theirs ;   but  my  Beloved  's  mine. 


277.  Epigram 

Respicc  Finem 

IVTY  soul,  sit  thou  a  patient  looker-on; 

^*-     Judge  not  the  play  before  the  play  is  done: 

Her  plot  hath  many  changes  ;   every  day 

Speaks  a  new  scene ;   the  last  act  crowns  the  play. 


HENRY  KING,  BISHOP  OF  CHICHESTER 

278.  A  Contemplation  upon  Flowers 

1592-1669 

BRAVE  flowers — that  I  could  gallant  it  like  you, 
And  be  as  little  vain! 
You  come  abroad,   and  make  a  harmless  show, 

And  to  your  beds  of  earth  again. 
You  are  not  proud :   you  know  your  birth : 
For  your  embroider'd  garments  are  from  earth. 

You  do  obey  your  months  and  times,  but  I 

Would  have  it  ever  Spring  : 
My  fate  would  know  no  Winter,   never  die, 

Nor  think  of  such  a  thing. 
O  that  I  could  my  bed  of  earth  but  view 
And  smile,  and  look  as  cheerfully  as  you ! 

O  teach  me  to  see  Death  and  not  to  fear, 

But  rather  to  take  truce ! 
How  often  have  I   seen  you  at  a  bier, 

And  there  look  fresh  and  spruce  ! 
You  fragrant  flowers !    then  teach   me,   that  my  breath 
Like  yours  may  sweeten  and  perfume  my  death. 

279.  A  Renunciation 

VV7E,  that  did  nothing  study  but  the  way 

**        To  love  each  other,  with  which  thoughts  the  day 
Rose  with   delight  to  us  and  with  them  set, 
Must  learn  the  hateful  art,   how  to  forget. 
We,  that  did  nothing  wish  that  Heaven  could  give 
Beyond  ourselves,  nor  did  desire  to  live 
386 


HENRY  KING 

Beyond  that  wish,  all  these  now  cancel  must, 

As  if  not  writ  in  faith,  but  words  and  dust. 

Yet  witness  those  clear  vows  which  lovers  make, 

Witness  the  chaste  desires  that  never  brake 

Into  unruly  heats  ;    witness  that  breast 

Which  in  thy  bosom  anchor'd  his  whole  rest — 

Tis  no  default  in  us :    I  dare  acquite 

Thy  maiden  faith,   thy  purpose  fair  and  white 

As  thy  pure  self.     Cross  planets  did  envy 

Us  to  each  other,  and  Heaven  did  untie 

Faster  than  vows  could  bind.     Oh,  that  the  stars, 

When  lovers  meet,   should  stand  opposed  in  wars  \ 

Since  then  some  higher  Destinies  command, 

Let  us  not  strive,  nor  labour  to  withstand 

What  is  past  help.     The  longest  date  of  grief 

Can  never  yield  a  hope  of  our  relief: 

Fold  back  our  arms ;   take  home  our  fruitless  loves, 

That  must  new  fortunes  try,  like  turtle-doves 

Dislodged  from  their  haunts.     We  must  in  tears 

Unwind  a  love  knit  up  in  many  years. 

In  this  last  kiss  I  here  surrender  thee 

Back  to  thyself. — So,  thou  again  art  free: 

Thou  in  another,  sad  as  that,  resend 

The  truest  heart  that  lover  e'er  did  lend. 

Now  turn  from  each :   so  fare  our  sever'd  hearts 

As  the  divorced  soul  from  her  body  parts. 

280.  Exequy  on  his  Wife 

ACCEPT,  thou  shrine  of  my  dead  saint, 
•**•     Instead  of  dirges  this  complaint; 
And  for  sweet  flowers  to  crown  thy  herse 
Receive  a  strew  of  weeping  verse 


HENRY  KING 

From  thy  grieved  friend,  whom  thou  might' st  see 
Quite  melted  into  tears  for  thee. 

Dear  loss  !    since  thy  untimely  fate, 
My  task  hath  been  to  meditate 
On  thee,  on  thee!    Thou  art  the  book, 
The  library  whereon  I  look, 
Tho'  almost  blind.     For  thee,   loved  clay, 
I  languish  out,  not  live,   the  day.  .   .  . 
Thou  hast  benighted  me ;    thy  set 
This  eve  of  blackness  did  beget, 
Who  wast  my  day  (tho'  overcast 
Before  thou  hadst  thy  noontide  past) : 
And  I  remember  must  in  tears 
Thou  scarce  hadst  seen  so  many  years 
As  day  tells  hours.     By  thy  clear  sun 
My  love  and  fortune  first  did  run  ; 
But  thou  wilt  never  more  appear 
Folded  within  my  hemisphere, 
Since  both  thy  light  and  motion, 
Like  a  fled  star,   is  falPn  and  gone, 
And  'twixt  me  and  my  soul's  dear  wish 
The  earth  now  interposed  is.   ... 

I  could  allow  thee  for  a  time 
To  darken  me  and  my  sad  clime  ; 
Were  it  a  month,   a  year,  or  ten, 
I  would  thy  exile  live  till  then, 
And  all  that  space  my  mirth  adjourn — • 
So  thou  wouldst  promise  to  return, 
And  putting  off  thy  ashy  shroud 
At  length  disperse  this  sorrow's  cloud. 

But  woe  is  me !   the  longest  date 
Too  narrow  is  to  calculate 
These  empty  hopes:   never  shall  I 


HENRY  KING 

Be  so  much  blest  as  to  descry 

A  glimpse  of  thee,  till  that  day  come 

Which  shall  the  earth  to  cinders  doom, 

And  a  fierce  fever  must  calcine 

The  body  of  this  world  — like  thine, 

My  little  world  !    That  fit  of  fire 

Once  off,  our  bodies  shall  aspire 

To  our  souls'  bliss  :    then  we  shall  rise 

And  view  ourselves  with  clearer  eyes 

In  that  calm  region  where  no  night 

Can  hide  us  from  each  other's  sight. 

Meantime  thou  hast  her,  earth :   much  good 
May  my  harm  do  thee  !    Since  it  stood 
With  Heaven's  will  I  might  not  call 
Her  longer  mine,   I  give  thee  all 
My  short-lived  right  and  interest 
In  her  whom  living  I  loved  best. 
Be  kind  to  her,  and  prithee  look 
Thou  write  into  thy  Doomsday  book 
Each  parcel  of  this  rarity 
Which  in  thy  casket  shrined  doth  lie, 
As  thou  wilt  answer  Him  that  lent — 
Not  gave — thee  my  dear  monument. 
So  close  the  ground,  and  'bout  her  shade 
Black  curtains  draw:    my  bride  is  laid. 

Sleep  on,  my  Love,  in  thy  cold  bed 
Never  to  be  disquieted  ! 
My  last  good-night!    Thou  wilt  not  wake 
Till  I  thy  fate  shall  overtake: 
Till  age,  or  grief,  or  sickness  must 
Marry  my  body  to  that  dust 
It  so  much  loves ;  and  fill  the  room 
My  heart  keeps  empty  in  thy  tomb. 

•L  ,& 


HENRY  KING 

Stay  for  me  there:    I  will  not  fail 

To  meet  thee  in  that  hollow  vale. 

And  think  not  much  of  my  delay: 

I  am  already  on  the  way, 

And  follow  thee  with  all  the  speed 

Desire  can  make,  or  sorrows  breed. 

Each  minute  is  a  short  degree 

And  every  hour  a  step  towards  thee.  .  .  . 

'Tis  true — with  shame  and  grief  I  yield — 
Thou,  like  the  van,  first  took'st  the  field; 
And  gotten  hast  the  victory 
In  thus  adventuring  to  die 
Before  me,  whose  more  years  might  crave 
A  just  precedence  in  the  grave. 
But  hark !    my  pulse,  like  a  soft  drum, 
Beats  my  approach,   tells  thee  I  come; 
And  slow  howe'er  my  marches  be 
1  shall  at  last  sit  down  by  thee. 

The  thought  of  this  bids  me  go  on 
And  wait  my  dissolution 
With  hope  and  comfort.     Dear — forgive 
The  crime — I  am  content  to  live 
Divided,  with  but  half  a  heart, 
Till  we  shall  meet  and  never  part. 

GEORGE  HERBERT 
281.  Virtue 

«593- 

SWEET  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright! 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky— 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night; 
For  thou  must  die. 


GEORGE  HERBERT 

Sweet  rose,  whose  hue  angry  and  brave 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave, 
And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  spring,  full  of  sv/eet  days  and  roses, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie, 
My  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 
And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 
Like  season'd  umber,  never  gives ; 
But  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal, 
Then  chiefly  lives. 

282.  Easter 

T    GOT  me  flowers  to  straw  Thy  way, 

I  got  me  boughs  off  many  a  tree ; 
But  Thou  wast  up  by  break  of  day, 

And  brought'st  Thy  sweets  along  with  Thee. 

Yet  though  my  flowers  be  lost,   they  say 
A  heart  can  never  come  too  late; 

Teach  it  to  sing  Thy  praise  this  day, 
And  then  this  day  my  life  shall  date. 


"Discipli 


ine 


""THROW  away  Thy  rod, 

Throw  away  Thy  wrath  ; 

O  my  God, 
Take  the  gentle  path! 


GEORGE  HERBERT 

For  my  heart's  desire 
Unto  Thine  is  bent: 

I  aspire 
To  a  full  consent. 

Not  a  word  or  look 
I  affect  to  own, 

But  by  book, 
And  Thy  Book  alone. 

Though  I  fail,   I  weepi 
Though  I  halt  in  pace, 

Yet  I  creep 
To  the  throne  of  grace. 

Then  let  wrath  remove; 
Love  will  do  the  deed  ; 

For  with  love 
Stony  hearts  will  bleed. 

Love  is  swift  of  foot ; 

Love  's  a  man  of  war, 

And  can  shoot, 

And  can  hit  from  far. 

Who  can  'scape  his  bow  ? 
That  which  wrought  on  Thee. 

Brought  Thee  low, 
Needs  must  work  on  me. 

Throw  away  Thy  rod ; 
Though  man  frailties  hath, 

Thou  art  God : 
Throw  away  Thy  wrath  1 
993 


GEORGE  HERBERT 

284.  A  "Dialogue 

Man.   C  WEETEST  Saviour,  if  my  soul 
^     Were  but  worth  the  having, 
Quickly  should  I  then  control 

Any  thought  of  waving. 
But  when  all  my  care  and  pains 
Cannot  give  the  name  of  gains 
To  Thy  wretch  so  full  of  stains, 
What  delight  or  hope  remains  ? 

Saviour.   What,   child,  is  the  balance  thine, 

Thine  the  poise  and  measure  ? 
If  I  say,   'Thou  shah  be  Mine,' 

Finger  not  My  treasure. 
What  the  gains  in  having  thee 
Do  amount  to,  only  He 
Who  for  man  was  sold  can  see; 
That  transferr'd  th'  accounts  to  Me. 

Man.   But  as  I  can  see  no  merit 
Leading  to  this  favour, 

So  the  way  to  fit  me  for  it 
Is  beyond  my  savour. 

As  the  reason,  then,  is  Thine, 

So  the  way  is  none  of  mine; 

I  disclaim  the  whole  design ; 

Sin  disclaims  and  I  resign. 

Saviour.  That  is  all :    if  that  I  could 

Get  without  repining; 
And  My  clay,  My  creature,  would 
Follow  My  resigning ; 

iSj.  savour]  savoir,  knowing. 


GEORGE  HERBERT 

That  as  I  did  freely  part 

With  My  glory  and  desert, 

Left  all  joys  to  feel  all  smart 

Man.  Ah,  no  more!    Thou  break's!  my  heart! 


28?.  The  Tulley 

WfHEN  God  at  first  made  Man, 

^^       Having  a  glass  of  blessings  standing  by- 
Let  us  (said  He)  pour  on  him  all  we  can ; 
Let  the  world's  riches,  which  dispersed  lie, 

Contract  into  a  span. 

So  strength  first  made  a  way, 

Then  beauty  flow'd,  then  wisdom,   honour,  pleasure : 
When  almost  all  was  out,   God  made  a  stay, 
Perceiving  that,   alone  of  all  His  treasure, 

Rest  in  the  bottom  lay. 

For  if  I  should  (said  He) 
Bestow  this  jewel  also  on  My  creature, 
He  would  adore  My  gifts  instead  of  Me, 
And  rest  in  Nature,  not  the  God  of  Nature: 

So  both  should  losers  be. 

Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest, 
But  keep  them  with  repining  restlessness; 
Let  him  be  rich  and  weary,  that  at  least. 
If  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  weariness 

May  toss  him  to  My  breast. 


GEORGE  HERBERT 

286.  Love 

T   OVE  bade  me  welcome;    yet  my  soul  drew  back, 

*•"         Guilty  of  dust  and  sin. 

But  quick-eyed  Love,  observing  me  grow  slack 

From  my  first  entrance  in, 
Drew  nearer  to  me,   sweetly  questioning 

If  I  lack'd  anything. 

'  A  guest,'  I  answer'd,   '  worthy  to  be  here : ' 

Love  said,   'You  shall  be  he.' 
'  I,  the  unkind,  ungrateful  ?     Ah,   my  dear, 

I  cannot  look  on  Thee.' 
Love  took  my  hand  and  smiling  did  reply, 

'  Who  made  the  eyes  but  I  ? ' 

'  Truth,   Lord ;    but  I  have  marr'd  them :    let  my  shame 

Go  where  it  doth  deserve.' 
'And  know  you  not,'  says  Love,    'Who  bore  the  blame? 

'  My  dear,  then  I  will  serve.' 
'You  must  sit  down,'  says  Love,   'and  taste  my  meat.' 

So  I  did  sit  and  eat. 

JAMES   SHIRLEY 

287.  A  Hymn 

1596-1666 

OFLY,  my  Soul!     What  hangs  upon 
Thy  drooping  wings, 
And  weighs  them  down 
With  love  of  gaudy  mortal  things  ? 

The  Sun  is  now  i'  the  east:    each  shade 

As  he  doth  rise 

Is  shorter  made, 
That  earth  may  lessen  to  our  eyes. 


JAMES  SHIRLEY 

O  be  not  careless  then  and  play 

Until  the  Star  of  Peace 
Hide  all  his  beams  in  dark  recess  ! 
Poor  pilgrims  needs  must  lose  their  way, 
When  all  the  shadows  do  increase. 

288.  Death  the  Leveller 

''THE  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 
*•       Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things ; 
There  is  no  armour  against  Fate ; 
Death  lays  his  icy  hand  on  kings  : 
Sceptre  and  Crown 
Must  tumble  down, 
And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 
And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill : 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield  ; 
They  tame  but  one  another  still : 
Early  or  late 
They  stoop  to  fate, 

And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath 
When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow ; 

Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds ! 
Upon  Death's  purple  altar  now 
See  where  the  victor-victim  bleeds. 
Your  heads  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb: 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet  and  blossom  in  their  dust. 
790 


AS 
•**• 


THOMAS   CAREW 

280.  Song 

SK  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows, 

When  June  is  past,  the  fading  rose; 
For  in  your  beauty's  orient  deep 
These  flowers,  as  in  their  causes,  sleep. 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  do  stray 
The  golden  atoms  of  the  day  ; 
For  in  pure  love  heaven  did  prepare 
Those  powders  to  enrich  your  hair. 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  doth  haste 
The  nightingale  when  May  is  past  ; 
For  in  your  sweet  dividing  throat 
She  winters  and  keeps  warm  her  note. 

Ask  me  no  more  where  those  stars  'light 
That  downwards  fall  in  dead  of  night  ; 
For  in  your  eyes  they  sit,  and  there 
Fixed  become  as  in  their  sphere. 

Ask  me  no  more  if  east  or  west 
The  Phoenix  builds  her  spicy  nest; 
For  unto  you  at  last  she  flies, 
And  in  your  fragrant  bosom  dies. 

2po.      Persuasions  to  Joy:   a  Song 

T  F  the  quick  spirits  in  your  eye 
•*•      Now  languish  and  anon  must  die; 
If  every  sweet  and  every  grace 
Must  fly  from  that  forsaken  face; 


THOMAS  CAREW 

Then,  Celia,  let  us  reap  our  joys 
Ere  Time  such  goodly  fruit  destroys, 

Or  if  that  golden  fleece  must  grow 

For  ever  free  from  aged  snow ; 

If  those  bright  suns  must  know  no  shade, 

Nor  your  fresh  beauties  ever  fade; 
Then  fear  not,  Celia,  to  bestow 
What,  still  being  gather'd,   still  must  giow. 

Thus  either  Time  his  sickle  brings 
In  vain,  or  else  in  vain  his  wings. 


291.     To  His  Inconstant  Mistress 

VW'HEN  thou,  poor  Excommunicate 
**       From  all  the  joys  of  Love,  shah  see 

The  full  reward  and  glorious  fate 

Which  my  strong  faith  shall  purchase  me, 
Then  curse  thine  own  inconstancy ! 

A  fairer  hand  than  thine  shall  cure 

That  heart  which  thy  false  oaths  did  wound ; 

And  to  my  soul  a  soul  more  pure 

Than  thine  shall  by  Love's  hand  be  bound, 
And  both  with  equal  glory  crown'd. 

Then  shall  thou  weep,  entreat,  complain 

To  Love,  as  I  did  once  to  thee ; 
When  all  thy  tears  shall  be  as  vain 

As  mine  were  then :    for  thou  shah  be 

Damn'd  for  thy  false  apostasy. 

198 


THOMAS  CAREW 


The  Unfading  Beauty 

T  T  E  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek, 

Or  a  coral  lip  admires, 
Or  from  star-like  eyes  doth  seek 

Fuel  to  maintain  his  fires : 
As  old  Time  makes  these  decay, 
So  his  flames  must  waste  away. 

But  a  smooth  and  steadfast  mind, 
Gentle  thoughts  and  calm  desires, 

Hearts  with  equal  love  combined, 
Kindle  never-dying  fires. 

Where  these  are  not,   I  despise 

Lovely  cheeks  or  lips  or  eyes. 


293.     fngrateful  Beauty  threatened 


,  Celia,  since  thou  art  so  proud, 
•**  'Twas  I  that  gave  thee  thy  renown. 
Thou  hadst  in  the  forgotten  crowd 

Of  common  beauties  lived  unknown, 
Had  not  my  verse  extoll'd  thy  name, 
And  with  it  imp'd  the  wings  of  Fame. 

That  killing  power  is  none  of  thine  ; 

I  gave  it  to  thy  voice  and  eyes  ; 
Thy  sweets,  thy  graces,  all  are  mine; 

Thou  art  my  star,  shin'st  in  my  skies  ; 
Then  dart  not  from  thy  borrow'd  sphere 
Lightning  on  him  that  fix'd  thee  there. 

imp'd]  grafted  with  new  feathers. 


THOMAS  CAREW 

Tempt  me  with  such  affrights  no  more, 
Lest  what  I  made  I  uncreate ; 

Let  fools  thy  mystic  form  adore, 
I  know  thee  in  thy  mortal  state. 

Wise  poets,  that  wrapt  Truth  in  tales, 

Knew  her  themselves  through  all  her  veils, 

2P4.  Epitaph 

On  the  Lady  Mary    Villurs 

T^HE  Lady  Mary  Villiers  lies 
•*•       Under  this  stone ;    with  weeping  eyes 
The  parents  that  first  gave  her  birth, 
And  their  sad  friends,  laid  her  in  earth. 
If  any  of  them,    Reader,   were 
Known  unto  thee,   shed  a  tear; 
Or  if  thyself  possess  a  gem 
As  dear  to  thee,  as  this  to  them, 
Though  a  stranger  to  this  place, 
Bewail  in  theirs  thine  own  hard  case: 
For  thou  perhaps  at  thy  return 
May'st  find  thy  Darling  in  an  urn. 

2pf.  Another 

'  I  'HIS  little  vault,  this  narrow  room, 
A      Of  Love  and  Beauty  is  the  tomb? 
The  dawning  beam,  that  'gan  to  clear 
Our  clouded  sky,  lies  darken'd  here, 
For  ever  set  to  us :    by  Death 
Sent  to  enflame  the  World  Beneath. 
'Twas  but  a  bud,   yet  did  contain 
More  sweetness  than  shall  spring  again ; 
300 


THOMAS  CAREW 

A  budding  Star,  that  might  have  grown 
Into  a  Sun  when  it  had  blown. 
This  hopeful  Beauty  did  create 
New  life  in   Love's  declining  state; 
But  now  his  empire  ends,  and  we 
From  fire  and  wounding  darts  are  free ; 
His  brand,  his  bow,  let  no  man  fear: 
The  flames,  the  arrows,  all  lie  here. 


JASPER   MAYNE 

296.  Time 

1604-1673 

"TIME  is  the  feather'd  thing, 
•^       And,  whilst  I  praise 
The  sparldings  of  thy  looks  and  call  them  rays, 

Takes  wing, 

Leaving  behind  him  as  he  flies 
An  unperceived  dimness  in  thine  eyes. 
His  minutes,  whilst  they're  told, 

Do  make  us  old ; 
And  every  sand  of  his  fleet  glass, 
Increasing  age  as  it  doth  pass, 
Insensibly  sows  wrinkles  there 
Where  flowers  and  roses  do  appear. 
Whilst  we  do  speak,  our  fire 
Doth  into  ice  expire, 

Flames  turn  to  frost ; 
And  ere  we  can 

Know  how  our  crow  turns  swan, 
Or  how  a  silver  snow 
Springs  there  where  jet  did  grow, 
Our  fading  spring  is  in  dull  winter  lost. 

301 


JASPER  MAYNE 

Since  then  the  Night  hath  hurl'd 

Darkness,   Love's  shade, 
Over  its  enemy  the  Day,  and  made 

The  world 

Just  such  a  blind  and  shapeless  thing 
As  'twas  before  light  did  from  darkness  spring, 
Let  us  employ  its  treasure 
And  make  shade  pleasure : 
Let's  number  out  the  hours  by  blisses, 
And  count  the  minutes  by  our  kisses; 
Let  the  heavens  new  motions  feel 
And  by  our  embraces  wheel ; 
And  whilst  we  try  the  way 
By  which  Love  doth  convey 
Soul  unto  soul, 
And  mingling  so 
Makes  them  such  raptures  know 
As  makes  them  entranced  lie 

In  mutual  ecstasy, 
Let  the  harmonious  spheres  in  music  roll ! 

WILLIAM  HABINGTON 

297.   To  Roses  in  the  Bosom  of  Castara, 

1605-1654 

Y"E  blushing  virgins  happy  are 
•*•       In  the  chaste  nunnery  of  her  breasts — 
For  he'd  profane  so  chaste  a  fair, 

Whoe'er  should  call  them  Cupid's  nests. 

Transplanted  thus  how  bright  ye  grow  ! 

How  rich  a  perfume  do  ye  yield  ! 
In  some  close  garden  cowslips  so 

Are  sweeter  than  i'  th'  open  field. 


WILLIAM  HABINGTON 

In  those  white  cloisters  live  secure 

From  the  rude  blasts  of  wanton  breath  ! — 

Each  hour  more  innocent  and  pure, 
Till  you  shall  wither  into  death. 

Then  that  which  living  gave  you  room, 
Your  glorious  sepulchre  shall  be. 

There  wants  no  marble  for  a  tomb 

Whose  breast  hath  marble  been  to  me. 

298.      Nox  Noctt  Indkat  Scientiam 

YVTHEN  I  survey  the  bright 

W       Celestial  sphere; 
So  rich  with  jewels  hung,  that  Night 
Doth  like  an  Ethiop  bride  appear: 

My  soul  her  wings  doth  spread 

And  heavenward  flies, 
Th'  Almighty's  mysteries  to  read 
In  the  large  volumes  of  the  skies. 

For  the  bright  firmament 

Shoots  forth  no  flame 
So  silent,   but  is  eloquent 

In  speaking  the  Creator's  name. 

No  unregarded  star 

Contracts  its  light 
Into  so  small  a  character, 

Removed  far  from  our  human  sight, 

But  if  we  steadfast  look 
We  shall  discern 
In  it,  as  in  some  holy  book, 

How  man  may  heavenly  knowledge  learn. 


WILLIAM  HABINGTON 

It  tells  the  conqueror 

That  far-stretch'd  power, 
Which  his  proud  dangers  traffic  for, 
Is  but  the  triumph  of  an  hour : 

That  from  the  farthest  North, 

Some  nation  may, 
Yet  undiscover'd,   issue  forth, 

And  o'er  his  new-got  conquest  sway 

Some  nation  yet  shut  in 
With  hills  of  ice 

May  be  let  out  to  scourge  his  sin, 
Till  they  shall  equal  him  in  vice. 

And  then  they  likewise  shall 

Their  ruin  have ; 

For  as  yourselves  your  empires  fall, 
And  every  kingdom  hath  a  grave. 

Thus  those  celestial  fires, 

Though  seeming  mute, 
The  fallacy  of  our  desires 

And  all  the  pride  of  life  confute : — 

For  they  have  watch'd  since  first 

The  World  had  birth: 
And  found  sin  in  itself  accurst, 
And  nothing  permanent  on  Earth. 


THOMAS    RANDOLPH 

299.  A  "Devout  Lover 

1605-1635 

T    HAVE  a  mistress,  for  perfections  rare 

In  every  eye,  but  in  my  thoughts  most  fair. 
Like  tapers  on  the  altar  shine  her  eyes  ; 
Her  breath  is  the  perfume  of  sacrifice; 
And  wheresoe'er  my  fancy  would  begin, 
Still  her  perfection  lets  religion  in. 
We  sit  and  talk,  and  kiss  away  the  hours 
As  chastely  as  the  morning  dews  kiss  flowers : 
I  touch  her,   like  my  beads,   with  devout  care, 
And  come  unto  my  courtship  as  my  prayer. 


300.  An  Ode  to  Master  Anthony  Stafford 

to  hasten  Him  into  the   Country 


spur  away, 

•^     I  have  no  patience  for  a  longer  stay, 
But  must  go  down 

And  leave  the  chargeable  noise  of  this  great  town  : 
I  will  the  country  see, 
Where  old  simplicity, 
Though  hid  in  gray, 
Doth  look  more  gay 
Than  foppery  in  plush  and  scarlet  clad. 
Farewell,  you  city  wits,  that  are 

Almost  at  civil  war  — 
Tis  time  that  I  grow  wise,  when  all  the  world  grows  mad. 

305 


THOMAS  RANDOLPH 

More  of  my  days 
1  will  not  spend  to  gain  an  idiot's  praise; 

Or  to  make  sport 

For  some  slight  Puisne  of  the  Inns  of  Court. 
Then,  worthy  Stafford,  say, 
How  shall  we  spend  the  day? 
With  what  delights 
Shorten  the  nights? 

When  from  this  tumult  we  are  got  secure, 
Where  mirth  with  all  her  freedom  goes, 

Yet  shall  no  finger  lose;     ' 
Where  every  word  is  thought,  and  every  thought  is  pure  ? 

There  from  the  tree 
We'll  cherries  pluck,  and  pick  the  strawberry; 

And  every  day 

Go  see  the  wholesome  country  girls  make  hay, 
Whose  brown  hath  lovelier  grace 
Than  any  painted  face 
That  I  do  know 
Hyde  Park  can  show: 
Where  I  had  rather  gain  a  kiss  than  meet 
(Though  some  of  them  in  greater  state 

Might  court  my  love  with  plate) 
The  beauties  of  the  Cheap,  and  wives  of  Lombard  Street. 

But  think  upon 
Some  other  pleasures :    these  to  me  are  none. 

Why  do  I  prate 

Of  women,  that  are  things  against  my  fate  i 
I  never  mean  to  wed 
That  torture  to  my  bed: 
My  Muse  is  she 
My  love  shall  be. 
306 


THOMAS  RANDOLPH 

Let  clowns  get  wealth  and  heirs  :    when  I  am  gone 
And  that  great  bugbear,  grisly  Death, 

Shall  take  this  idle  breath, 
If  I  a  poem  leave,  that  poem  is  my  son. 

Of  this  no  more! 
We'll  rather  taste  the  bright  Pomona's  store. 

No  fruit  shall  'scape 

Our  palates,  from  the  damson  to  the  grape. 
Then,  full,  we'll  seek  a  shade, 
And  hear  what  music  's  made ; 
How  Philomel 
Her  tale  doth  tell, 

And  how  the  other  birds  do  fill  the  quire; 
The  thrush  and  blackbird  lend  their  throats, 

Warbling  melodious  notes  ; 
We  will  all  sports  enjoy  which  others  but  desire. 

Ours  is  the  sky, 
Where  at  what  fowl  we  please  our  hawk  shall  fly : 

Nor  will  we   spare 

To  hunt  the  crafty  fox  or  timorous  hare ; 
But  let  our  hounds  run  loose 
In  any  ground  they'll  choose ; 
The  buck  shall  fall, 
The  stag,  and  all. 

Our  pleasures  must  from  their  own  warrants   be, 
For  to  my  Muse,  if  not  to  me, 

I'm  sure  all  game  is  free: 
Heaven,  earth,  are  all  but  parts  of  her  great  royalty. 

And  when  we  mean 
To  taste  of  Bacchus'  blessings  now  and  then, 

And  drink  by  stealth 
A  cup  or  two  to  noble  Barkley's  health, 


THOMAS  RANDOLPH 

I'll  take  my  pipe  and  try 
The  Phrygian  melody ; 
Which  he  that  hears, 
Lets  through  his  ears 
A  madness  to  distemper  all  the  brain : 
Then  I  another  pipe  will  take 

And  Doric  music  make, 
To  civilize  with  graver  notes  our  wits  again. 


SIR  WILLIAM  DAVENANT 

101.  slubade 

1606-1668 

'"THE  lark  now  leaves  his  wat'ry  nest, 
-*•     And  climbing  shakes  his  dewy  wings. 
He  takes  this  window  for  the   East, 

And  to  implore  your  light  he  sings — 
Awake,  awake !    the  morn  will  never  rise 
Till  she  can  dress  her  beauty  at  your  eyes. 

The  merchant  bows  unto  the  seaman's  star, 

The  ploughman  from  the  sun  his  season  takes ; 

But  still  the  lover  wonders  what  they  are 

Who  look   for  day  before  his  mistress  wakes. 

Awake,  awake  !    break  thro*  your  veils  of  lawn  ! 

Then  draw  your  curtains,  and  begin  the  dawn ! 

302.  To  a  Mistress  "Dying 

Lover.   Y'OUR  beauty,  ripe  and  calm  and  fresh 

As  eastern  summers  are, 
Must  now,  forsaking  time  and  flesh, 

Add  light  to  some  small  star. 
308 


SIR  WILLIAM  DAVENANT 

Philosopher.    Whilst  she  yet  lives,  were  stars  decay'd, 
Their  light  by  hers  relief  might  find ; 
But  Death  will  lead  her  to  a  shade 
Where  Love  is  cold  and  Beauty  blind. 

Lover.   Lovers,  whose  priests  all  poets  are, 

Think  every  mistress,  when  she  dies, 
Is  changed  at  least  into  a  star : 

And  who  dares  doubt  the  poets  wise  ? 

Philosopher.    But  ask  not  bodies  doom'd  to  die 

To  what  abode  they  go ; 
Since  Knowledge  is  but  Sorrow's  spy, 
It  is  not  safe  to  know. 


05.  Praise  and  Tracer 

T)  RAISE  is  devotion  fit  for  mighty  minds, 
*•      The  difPring  world's  agreeing  sacrifice; 
Where  Heaven  divided  faiths  united  finds  : 
But  Prayer  in  various  discord  upward  flies. 

For  Prayer  the  ocean  is  where  diversely 

Men  steer  their  course,  each  to  a  sev'ral  coasc ; 

Where  all  our  interests  so  discordant  be 

That  half  beg  winds  by  which  the  rest  are  lost. 

By  Penitence  when  we  ourselves  forsake, 
'Tis  but  in  wise  design  on  piteous  Heaven ; 

In  Praise  we  nobly  give  what  God  may  take, 
And  are,   without  a  beggar's  blush,  forgiven. 


T 


EDMUND   WALLER 
304.  On  a  Girdle  ^ 

HAT  which  her  slender  waist  confined 

Shall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind; 
No  monarch  but  would  give  his  crown 
His  arms  might  do  what  this  has  done. 
It  was  my  Heaven's  extremest  sphere, 
The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  deer: 
My  joy,  my  grief,  my  hope,  my  love, 
Did  all  within  this  circle  move. 
A  narrow  compass!    and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that's  good,  and  all  that's  fair! 
Give  me  but  what  this  ribband  bound, 
Take  all  the  rest  the  sun  goes  round  1 

.  Go,  lovely  Rose 

GO,  lovely  Rose  — 
Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and  me, 

That  now  she  knows, 
When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 

Tell  her  that's  young, 
And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts  where  no  men  abide, 
Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 

Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired*. 

Bid  her  come  forth, 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 
910 


EDMUND  WALLER 

Then  die — that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee; 

How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair ! 

$06.  Old  Age 

T^H  E  seas  are  quiet  when  the  winds  give  o'er ; 
*•     So  calm  are  we  when  passions  are  no  more. 
For  then  we  know  how  vain  it  was  to  boast 
Of  fleeting  things,  so  certain  to  be  lost. 
Clouds  of  affection  from  our  younger  eyes 
Conceal  that  emptiness  which  age  descries. 
The  soul's  dark  cottage,  batter'd  and  decay'd, 
Lets  in  new  light  through  chinks  that  Time  hath  made: 
Stronger  by  weakness,  wiser  men  become 
As  they  draw  near  to  their  eternal  home. 
Leaving  the  old,  both  worlds  at  once  they  view 
That  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  the  new. 

JOHN   MILTON 
307.    ffymn  on  the  Morning  of  Christ's 

Nativity 

1608-1674 

IT  was  the  Winter  wilde, 
While  the  Heav'n-born-childe, 
All  meanly  wrapt  in  the  rude  manger  lies; 
Nature  in  aw  to  him 
Had  doff't  her  gawdy  trim, 

With  her  great  Master  so  to  sympathize: 
It  was  no  season  then  for  her 
To  wanton  with  the  Sun  her  lusty  Paramour. 

3" 


JOHN  MILTON 

Only  with  speeches  fair 
She  woo's  the  gentle  Air 

To  hide  her  guilty  front  with  innocent  Snow, 
And  on  her  naked  shame, 
Pollute  with  sinfull  blame, 

The  Saintly  Vail  of  Maiden  white  to  throw, 
Confounded,   that  her  Makers  eyes 
Should  look  so  neer  upon  her  foul  deformities. 

But  he  her  fears  to  cease, 
Sent  down  the  meek-eyd  Peace, 

She  crown'd  with  Olive  green,   came  softly  sliding 
Down  through  the  turning  sphear 
His  ready  Harbinger, 

With  Turtle  wing  the  amorous  clouds  dividing, 
And  waving  wide  her  mirtle  wand, 
She  strikes  a  universall  Peace  through   Sea  and   Land. 

No  War,   or  Battails  sound 
Was  heard  the  World  around, 

The  idle  spear  and   shield  were  high  up  hung ; 
The  hooked  Chariot  stood 
Unstain'd  with  hostile  blood, 

The  Trumpet  spake  not  to  the  armed  throng, 
And   Kings  sate  still  with  awfull  eye, 
As  if  they  surely  knew  their  sovran  Lord  was  by. 

But  peacefull  was  the  night 
Wherin  the  Prince  of  light 

His  raign  of  peace  upon  the  earth  began: 
The  Windes  with  wonder  whist, 
Smoothly  the  waters  kist, 

Whispering  new  joyes  to  the  milde  Ocean, 
Who  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave, 
While  Birds  of  Calm  sit  brooding  on  the  charmed  wave. 


JOHN  MILTON 

The  Stars  with  deep  amaze 
Stand  fixt  in  stedfast  gaze, 

Bending  one  way  their  pretious  influence, 
And  will  not  take  their  flight, 
For  all  the  morning  light, 

Or  Lucifer  that  often  warn'd  them  thence; 
But  in  their  glimmering  Orbs  did  glow, 
Untill  their  Lord  himself  bespake,  and  bid  them  go. 

And  though  the  shady  gloom 
Had  given  day  her  room, 

The  Sun  himself  with-held  his  wonted  speed, 
And  hid  his  head  for  shame, 
As  his  inferiour  flame, 

The  new  enlightn'd  world  no  more  should  need ; 
He  saw  a  greater  Sun  appear 
Then  his  bright  Throne,  or  burning  Axletree  could  bear. 

The  Shepherds  on  the  Lawn, 
Or  ere  the  point  of  dawn, 

Sate  simply  chatting  in  a  rustick  row; 
Full  little  thought  they  than, 
That  the  mighty  Pan 

Was  kindly  com  to  live  with  them  below; 
Perhaps  their  loves,  or  els  their  sheep, 
Was  all  that  did  their  silly  thoughts  so  busie  keep. 

When  such  musick  sweet 
Their  hearts  and  ears  did  greet, 

As  never  was  by  mortall  finger  strook, 
Divinely-warbled  voice 
Answering  the  stringed  noise, 

As  all  their  souls  in  blisfull  rapture  took: 
The  Air  such  pleasure  loth  to  lose, 
With  thousand  echo's  still  prolongs  each  heav'nly  close. 


JOHN  MILTON 

Nature  that  heard  such  sound 
Beneath  the  hollow  round 

Of  Cynthia's  seat,  the  Airy  region  thrilling, 
Now  was  almost  won 
To  think  her  part  was  don, 

And  that  her  raign  had  here  its  last  fulfilling ; 
She  knew  such  harmony  alone 
Could  hold  all  Heav'n  and  Earth  in  happier  union. 

At  last  surrounds  their  sight 
A  Globe  of  circular  light, 

That  with  long  beams  the  shame-fac't  night   array 'd, 
The  helmed  Cherubim 
And  sworded  Seraphim, 

Are  seen  in  glittering  ranks  with  wings  displaid, 
Harping  in  loud  and  solemn  quire, 
With  unexpressive  notes  to  Heav'ns  new-born  Heir 

Such  musick  (as  'tis  said) 
Before  was  never  made, 

But  when  of  old  the  sons  of  morning  sung, 
While  the  Creator  Great 
His  constellations  set, 

And  the  well-ballanc't  world  on  hinges  hung, 
And  cast  the  dark  foundations  deep, 
And  bid  the  weltring  waves  their  oozy  channel  keeo. 

Ring  out  ye  Crystall  sphears, 
Once  bless  our  human  ears, 

(If  ye  have  power  to  touch  our  senses  so) 
And  let  your  silver  chime 
Move  in  melodious  time ; 

And  let  the  Base  of  Heav'ns  deep  Organ  blow 
And  with  your  ninefold  harmony 
Make  up  full  consort  to  th'Angelike  symphony. 
314 


JOHN  MILTON 

For  if  such  holy  Song 
Enwrap  our  fancy  long, 

Time  will  run  back,  and  fetch  the  age  of  gold, 
And  speckPd  vanity 
Will  sicken  soon  and  die, 

And  leprous  sin  will  melt  from  earthly  mould, 
And  Hell  it  self  will  pass  away, 
And  leave  her  dolorous  mansions  to  the  peering  day 

Yea  Truth,   and  Justice  then 
Will  down  return  to  men, 

Th'enameld  Arras  of  the  Rain-bow  wearing, 
And  Mercy  set  between, 
Thron'd  in  Celestiall  sheen, 

With  radiant  feet  the  tissued  clouds  down  stearing, 
And  Heav'n  as  at  som  festival!, 
Will  open  wide  the  Gates  of  her  high  Palace  Hall. 

But  wisest  Fate  sayes  no, 
This  must  not  yet  be  so, 

The  Babe  lies  yet  in  smiling  Infancy, 
That  on  the  bitter  cross 
Must  redeem  our  loss; 

So  both  himself  and  HS  to  glorifie : 
Yet  first  to  those  ychain'd  in  sleep, 
The  wakefull  trump  of  doom  must  thunder  through  the  deep, 

With  such  a  horrid  clang 
As  on  mount  Sinai  rang 

While  the  red  fire,  and  smouldring  clouds  out  brake : 
The  aged  Earth  agast 
With  terrour  of  that  blast, 

Shall  from  the  surface  to  the  center  shake; 
When  at  the  worlds  last  session, 
The  dreadfull  Judge  in  middle  Air  shall  spread  his  throne. 


JOHN  MILTON 

And  then  at  last  our  bliss 
Full  and  perfect  is, 

But  now  begins;    for  from  this  happy  day 
Th'old  Dragon  under  ground 
In  straiter  limits  bound, 

Not  half  so  far  casts  his  usurped  sway, 
And  wrath  to  see  his  Kingdom  fail, 
Swindges  the  scaly  Horrour  of  his  foulded  taih 

The  Oracles  are  dumm, 
No  voice  or  hideous  humm 

Runs  through  the  arched  roof  in  words  deceiving. 
Apollo  from  his  shrine 
Can  no  more  divine, 

With  hollow  shreik  the  steep  of  Delphos  leaving. 
No  nightly  trance,  or  breathed  spell, 
Inspire's  the  pale-ey'd  Priest  from  the  prophetic  cell. 

The  lonely  mountains  o're, 
And  the  resounding  shore, 

A  voice  of  weeping  heard,  and  loud  lament; 
From  haunted  spring,  and  dale 
Edg'd  with  poplar  pale, 

The  parting  Genius  is  with  sighing  sent, 
With  flowre-inwov'n  tresses  torn 
The  Nimphs  in  twilight  shade  of  tangled  thickets  mourn. 

In  consecrated  Earth, 
And  on  the  holy  Hearth, 

The  Lars,  and  Lemures  moan  with  midnight  plaint, 
In  Urns,  and  Altars  round, 
A  drear,  and  dying  sound 

Affrights  the  Flamins  at  their  service  quaint ; 
And  the  chill  Marble  seems  to  sweat, 
While  each  peculiar  power  forgoes  his  wonted  seat. 
316 


JOHN  MILTON 

Peor,  and  Baalim, 

Forsake  their  Temples  dim, 

With  that  twise-batter'd  god  of  Palestine, 
And  mooned  Ashtaroth, 
Heav'ns  Queen  and  Mother  both, 

Now  sits  not  girt  with  Tapers  holy  shine, 
The  Libyc  Hammon  shrinks  his  horn, 
In  vain  the  Tyrian  Maids  their  wounded  Thamuz  mourn. 

And  sullen  Moloch  fled, 
Hath  left  in  shadows  dred, 

His  burning  Idol  all  of  blackest  hue, 
In  vain  with  Cymbals  ring, 
Tney  call  the  grisly  king, 

In  dismall  dance  about  the  furnace  blue; 
The  brutish  gods  of  Nile  as  fast, 
isis  and  Orus,  and  the  Dog  Anubis  hast. 

Nor  is  Osiris  seen 

In  Memphian  Grove,  or  Green, 

Trampling  the  unshowr'd  Grasse  with  lowings  loud : 
Nor  can  he  be  at  rest 
Within  his  sacred  chest, 

Naught  but  profoundest  Hell  can  be  his  shroud, 
In  vain  with  Timbrel'd  Anthems  dark 
The  sable-stoled  Sorcerers  bear  his  worshipt  Ark. 

He  feels  from  Juda's  Land 
The  dredded  Infants  hand, 

The  rayes  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky  eyn ; 
Nor  all  the  gods  beside, 
Longer  dare  abide, 

Not  Typhon  huge  ending  in  snaky  twine: 
Our  Babe  to  shew  his  Godhead  true, 
Can  in  his  swadling  bands  controul  the  damned  crew. 

3«7 


JOHN  MILTON 

So  when  the  Sun  in  bed, 
Curtain'd  with  cloudy  red, 

Pillows  his  chin  upon  an  Orient  wave, 
The  nocking  shadows  pale, 
Troop  to  th'infernall  jail, 

Each  fetter'd  Ghost  slips  to  his  severall  grave, 
And  the  yellow-skirted  Fayes, 
Fly  after  the  Night-steeds,  leaving  their  Moon-lov'd  maze. 

But  see  the  Virgin  blest, 
Hath  laid  her  Babe  to  rest. 

Time  is  our  tedious  Song  should  here  have  ending, 
Heav'ns  youngest  teemed   Star, 
Hath  fixt  her  polisht  Car, 

Her  sleeping  Lord  with  Handmaid  Lamp  attending; 
And  all  about  the  Courtly  Stable, 
Bright-harnest  Angels  sit  in  order  serviceable. 


F1 


308.  On  Time 

,LY  envious  Time,  till  thou  run  out  thy  race, 

Call  on  the  lazy  leaden-stepping  hours, 
Whose  speed  is  but  the  heavy  Plummets  pace; 
And  glut  thy  self  with  what  thy  womb  devours, 
Which  is  no  more  then  what  is  false  and  vain, 
And  meerly  mortal  dross ; 
So  little  is  our  loss, 
So  little  is  thy  gain. 

For  when  as  each  thing  bad  thou  hast  entomb'd, 
And  last  of  all,  thy  greedy  self  consum'd, 
Then  long  Eternity  shall  greet  our  bliss 
With  an  individual  kiss; 
And  Joy  shall  overtake  us  as  a  flood, 
When  every  thing  that  is  sincerely  good 
318 


JOHN  MILTON 

And  perfectly  divine, 

With  Truth,  and  Peace,  and  Love  shall  ever  shine 

About  the  supreme  Throne 

Of  him,  t' whose  happy-making  sight  alone, 

When  once  our  heav'nly-guided  soul  shall  clime, 

Then  all  this  Earthy  grosnes  quit, 

Attir'd  with  Stars,  we  shall  for  ever  sit, 

Triumphing  over  Death,  and  Chance,  and  thee  O  Time. 

3 op.  At  a  Solemn  Musick 

IDLEST  pair  of  Sirens,  pledges  of  Heav'ns  joy, 
•'-'   Sphear-born  harmonious  Sisters,  Voice,  and  Vers, 
Wed  your  divine  sounds,  and  mixt  power  employ 
Dead  things  with  inbreath'd  sense  able  to  pierce, 
And  to  our  high-rais'd  phantasie  present, 
That  undisturbed  Song  of  pure  content, 
Ay  sung  before  the  saphire-colour'd  throne 
To  him  that  sits  theron 
With  Saintly  shout,  and  solemn  Jubily, 
Where  the  bright  Seraphim  in  burning  row 
Their  loud  up-lifted  Angel  trumpets  blow, 
And  the  Cherubick  host  in  thousand  quires 
Touch  their  immortal  Harps  of  golden  wires, 
With  those  just  Spirits  that  wear  victorious  Palms, 
Hymns  devout  and  holy  Psalms 
Singing  everlastingly  , 

That  we  on  Earth  with  undiscording  voice 
May  rightly  answer  that  melodious  noise; 
As  once  we  did,  till  disproportion'd  sin 
Jarr'd  against  natures  chime,  and  with  harsh  din 
Broke  the  fair  musick  that  all  creatures  made 
To  their  great  Lord,  whose  love  their  motion  sway'd 

3'9 


JOHN  MILTON 

In  perfect  Diapason,  whilst  they  stood 

In  first  obedience,  and  their  state  of  good. 

O  may  we  soon  again  renew  that  Song, 

And  keep  in  tune  with  Heav'n,  till  God  ere  long 

To  his  celestial  consort  us  unite, 

To  live  with  him,  and  sing  in  endles  morn  of  light. 

310.  L' Allegro 

LJENCE  loathed  Melancholy 

*•  •*    Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  midnight  born, 

In  Stygian  Cave  forlorn 

'Mongst  horrid  shapes,  and  shreiks,  and  sights  unholy. 
Find  out  som  uncouth  cell, 

Where  brooding  darknes  spreads  his  jealous  wings, 
And  the  night-Raven  sings; 

There,  under  Ebon  shades,  and  low-brow'd  Rocks, 
As  ragged  as  thy  Locks, 

In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell. 
But  com  thou  Goddes  fair  and  free, 
In  Heav'n  ycleap'd  Euphrosyne, 
And  by  men,  heart-easing  Mirth, 
Whom  lovely  Venus,  at  a  birth 
With  two  sister  Graces  more 
To  Ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore ; 
Or  whether  (as  som  Sager  sing) 
The  frolick  Wind  that  breathes  the  Spring, 
Zephir  with  Aurora  playing, 
As  he  met  her  once  a  Maying, 
There  on  Beds  of  Violets  blew, 
And  fresh-blown  Roses  washt  in  dew, 
Fill'd  her  with  thee  a  daughter  fair, 
So  bucksom,  blith,  and  debonair. 
330 


JOHN  MILTON 

Haste  thee  nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 
Jest  and  youthful  Jollity, 
Quips  and  Cranks,  and  wanton  Wiles, 
Nods,  and  Becks,  and  Wreathed  Smiles, 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek ; 
Sport  that  wrincled  Care  derides, 
And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 
Com,  and  trip  it  as  ye  go 
On  the  light  fantastic k  toe, 
And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee, 
The  Mountain  Nymph,  sweet  Liberty ; 
And  if  I  give  thee  honour  due, 
Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crue 
To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 
In  unreproved  pleasures  free ; 
To  hear  the  Lark  begin  his  flight, 
And  singing  startle  the  dull  night, 
From  his  watch-towre  in  the  skies, 
Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise; 
Then  to  com  in  spight  of  sorrow, 
And  at  my  window  bid  good  morrow, 
Through  the  Sweet-Briar,  or  the  Vine, 
Or  the  twisted  Eglantine. 
While  the  Cock  with  lively  din, 
Scatters  the  rear  of  darknes  thin, 
And  to  the  stack,  or  the  Barn  dore, 
Stoutly  struts  his  Dames  before, 
Oft  list'ning  how  the  Hounds  and  horn 
Chearly  rouse  the  slumbring  morn, 
From  the  side  of  som  Hoar  Hill, 
Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill. 
Som  time  walking  not  unseen 

M  w 


JOHN  MILTON 

By  Hedge-row  Elms,  on  Hillocks  green. 
Right  against  the  Eastern  gate, 
Wher  the  great  Sun  begins  his  state, 
Rob'd  in  flames,  and  Amber  light, 
The  clouds  in  thousand  Liveries  dight. 
While  the  Plowman  neer  at  hand, 
Whistles  ore  the  Furrow'd  Land, 
And  the  Milkmaid  singeth  blithe, 
And  the  Mower  whets  his  sithe, 
And  every  Shepherd  tells  his  tale 
Under  the  Hawthorn  in  the  dale. 
Streit  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures 
Whilst  the  Lantskip  round  it  measures, 
Russet  Lawns,  and  Fallows  Gray, 
Where  the  nibling  flocks  do  stray, 
Mountains  on  whose  barren  brest 
The  labouring  clouds  do  often  rest: 
Meadows  trim  with  Daisies  pide, 
Shallow  Brooks,  and  Rivers  wide. 
Towers,  and  Battlements  it  sees 
Boosom'd  high  in  tufted  Trees, 
Wher  perhaps  som  beauty  lies, 
The  Cynosure  of  neighbouring  eyes. 
Hard  by,  a  Cottage  chimney  smokes, 
From  betwixt  two  aged  Okes, 
Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis  met, 
Are  at  their  savory  dinner  set 
Of  Hearbs,  and  other  Country  Messes, 
Which  the  neat-handed  Phillis  dresses; 
And  then  in  haste  her  Bowre  she  leaves, 
With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  Sheaves; 
Or  if  the  earlier  season  lead 
To  the  tann'd  Haycock  in  the  Mead, 


JOHN  MILTON 

Som  times  with  secure  delight 

The  up-land  Hamlets  will  invite, 

When  the  merry  Bells  ring  round, 

And  the  jocond  rebecks  sound 

To  many  a  youth,  and  many  a  maid, 

Dancing  in  the  Chequer'd  shade; 

And  young  and  old  com  forth  to  play 

On  a  Sunshine  Holyday, 

Till  the  live-long  day-light  fail, 

Then  to  the  Spicy  Nut-brown  Ale, 

With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat, 

How  Faery  Mab  the  junkets  eat, 

She  was  pincht,  and  pull'd  she  sed, 

And  he  by  Friars  Lanthorn  led 

Tells  how  the  drudging  Goblin  swet, 

To  ern  his  Cream-bowle  duly  set, 

When  in  one  night,  ere  glimps  of  morn, 

His  shadowy  Flale  hath  thresh'd  the  Corn 

That  ten  day-labourers  could  not  end, 

Then  lies  him  down  the  Lubbar  Fend, 

And  stretch'd  out  all  the  Chimney's  length, 

Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength ; 

And  Crop-full  out  of  dores  he  flings, 

Ere  the  first  Cock  his  Mattin  rings. 

Thus  don  the  Tales,  to  bed  they  creep, 

By  whispering  Windes  soon  lull'd  asleep. 

Towred  Cities  please  us  then, 
And  the  busie  humm  of  men, 
Where  throngs  of  Knights  and  Barons  bold, 
In  weeds  of  Peace  high  triumphs  hold, 
With  store  of  Ladies,   whose  bright  eies 
Rain  influence,  and  judge  the  prise 
Of  Wit,  or  Arms,  while  both  contend 

3*3 


JOHN  MILTON 

To  win  her  Grace,  whom  all  commend. 

There  let  Hymen  oft  appear 

In  Saffron  robe,  with  Taper  clear, 

And  pomp,  and  feast,  and  revelry, 

With  mask,  and  antique  Pageantry, 

Such  sights  as  youthfull  Poets  dream 

On  Summer  eeves  by  haunted  stream. 

Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 

If  Jonsons  learned  Sock  be  on, 

Or  sweetest  Shakespear  fancies  childe, 

Warble  his  native  Wood-notes  wilde, 

And  ever  against  eating  Cares, 

Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  Aires, 

Married  to  immortal  verse 

Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce 

In  notes,  with  many  a  winding  bout 

Of  lincked  sweetnes  long  drawn  out, 

With  wanton  heed,  and  giddy  cunning, 

The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running; 

Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  ty 

The  hidden  soul  of  harmony. 

That  Orpheus  self  may  heave  his  head 

From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 

Of  heapt  Elysian  flowres,  and  hear 

Such  streins  as  would  have  won  the  ear 

Of  Pluto,  to  have  quite  set  free 

His  half  regain'd  Eurydice. 

These  delights,  if  thou  canst  give, 

Mirth  with  thee,   I  mean  to  live. 


3*4 


JOHN  MILTON 
//.  //  Tenseroso 

I_J  ENCE  vain  deluding  joyes, 

1  A     The  brood  of  folly  without  father  bred, 

How  little  you  bested, 

Or  fill  the  fixed  mind  with  all  your  toyes ; 
Dwell  in  som  idle  brain, 

And  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  shapes  possess, 
As  thick  and  numberless 

As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  Sun  Beams. 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams 

The  fickle  Pensioners  of  Morpheus  train. 
But  hail  thou  Goddes,   sage  and  holy, 
Hail  divinest  Melancholy, 
Whose  Saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  Sense  of  human  sight ; 
And  therfore  to  our  weaker  view, 
Ore  laid  with  black  staid  Wisdoms  hue. 
Black,   but  such  as  in  esteem, 
Prince  Memnons  sister  might  beseem, 
Or  that  Starr'd  Ethiope  Queen  that  strove 
To  set  her  beauties  praise  above 
The  Sea  Nymphs,  and  their  powers  offended. 
Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended, 
Thee  bright-hair'd  Vesta  long  of  yore, 
To  solitary  Saturn  bore ; 
His  daughter  she  (in  Saturns  raign, 
Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain) 
Oft  in  glimmering  Bowres,  and  glades 
He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 
Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove, 
Whilst  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove. 
Com  pensive  Nun,  devout  and  pure, 


JOHN  MILTON 

Sober,  stedfast,  and  demure, 

All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain, 

Flowing  with  majestick  train, 

And  sable  stole  of  Cipres  Lawn, 

Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 

Com,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state, 

With  eev'n  step,  and  musing  gate, 

And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 

Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes: 

There  held  in  holy  passion  still, 

Forget  thy  self  to  Marble,  till 

With  a  sad  Leaden  downward  cast, 

Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast. 

And  joyn  with  thee  calm  Peace,  and  Quiet, 

Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet, 

And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring, 

Ay  round  about  Joves  Altar  sing. 

And  adde  to  these  retired  Leasure, 

That  in  trim  Gardens  takes  his  pleasure; 

But  first,  and  chiefest,  with  thee  bring, 

Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing, 

Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne, 

The  Cherub  Contemplation, 

And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along, 

'Less  Philomel  will  daign  a  Song, 

In  her  sweetest,  saddest  plight, 

Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  night. 

While  Cynthia  checks  her  Dragon  yoke, 

Gently  o're  th'accustom'd  Oke ; 

Sweet  Bird  that  shunn'st  the  noise  of  folly, 

Most  musicall,  most  melancholy ! 

Thee  Chauntress  oft  the  Woods   among, 

I  woo  to  hear  thy  eeven-Song; 


JOHN  MILTON 

And  missing  thee,   I  walk  unseen 

On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  Green, 

To  behold  the  wandring  Moon, 

Riding  neer  her  highest  noon, 

Like  one  that  had  bin  led  astray 

Through  the  Heav'ns  wide  pathles  way; 

And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bow'd, 

Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 

Oft  on  a  Plat  of  rising  ground, 

I  hear  the  far-off  Curfeu  sound, 

Over  som  wide-water'd  shear, 

Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar; 

Or  if  the  Ayr  will  not  permit, 

Som  still  removed  place  will  fit, 

Where  glowing  Embers  through  the  room 

Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom, 

Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 

Save  the  Cricket  on  the  hearth, 

Or  the  Belmans  drousie  charm, 

To  bless  the  dores  from  nightly  harm: 

Or  let  my  Lamp  at  midnight  hour, 

Be  seen  in  som  high  lonely  Towr, 

Where  I  may  oft  out-watch  the  Bear, 

With  thrice  great  Hermes,  or  unsphear 

The  spirit  of  Plato  to  unfold 

What  Worlds,   or  what  vast  Regions  hold 

The  immortal  mind  that  hath  forsook 

Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook : 

And  of  those  Daemons  that  are  found 

In  fire,  air,   flood,  or  under  ground, 

Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent 

With  Planet,  or  with   Element. 

Som  time  let  Gorgeous  Tragedy 

3*7 


JOHN  MILTON 

In  Scepter'd  Pall  com  sweeping  by, 
Presenting  Thebs,  or  Pelops  line, 
Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine. 
Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age, 
Ennobled  hath  the  Buskind  stage. 

But,  O  sad  Virgin,  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  Musaeus  from  his  bower, 
Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing 
Such  notes  as  warbled  to  the  string, 
Drew  Iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek, 
And  made  Hell  grant  what   Love  did   seek. 
Or  call  up  him  that  left  half  told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold, 
Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 
And  who  had  Canace  to  wife, 
That  own'd  the  vertuous   Ring  and  Glass, 
And  of  the  wondrous  Hors  of  Brass, 
On  which  the  Tartar   King  did  ride; 
And  if  ought  els,  great  Bards  beside, 
In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung, 
Of  Turneys  and  of  Trophies  hung ; 
Of  Forests,  and  inchantments  drear, 
Where  more  is  meant  then  meets  the  ear. 
Thus  night  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career, 
Till  civil-suited  Morn  appeer, 
Not  trickt  and  frounc't  as  she  was  wont, 
With  the  Attick  Boy  to  hunt, 
But  Cherchef't  in  a  comly  Cloud, 
While  rocking  Winds  are  Piping  loud, 
Or  usher'd  with  a  shower  still, 
When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill, 
Ending  on  the  russling  Leaves, 
With  minute  drops  from  off  the  Eaves. 

3*8 


JOHN  MILTON 

And  when  the  Sun  begins  to  fling 

His  flaring  beams,   me  Goddes  bring 

To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves, 

And  shadows  brown  that  Sylvan  loves, 

Of  Pine,   or  monumental  Oake, 

Where  the  rude  Ax  with  heaved  stroke, 

Was  never  heard  the  Nymphs  to  daunt, 

Or  fright  them  from  their  hallow'd  haunt. 

There  in  close  covert  by  som   Brook, 

Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look, 

Hide  me  from  Day's  garish  eie, 

While  the  Bee  with  Honied  thie, 

That  at  her  flowry  work  doth  sing, 

And  the  Waters   murmuring 

With  such  consort  as  they  keep, 

Entice  the  dewy-feather'd  Sleep ; 

And  let  som  strange  mysterious  dream. 

Wave  at  his  Wings  in  Airy  stream, 

Of  lively  portrature  display'd, 

Softly  on  my  eye-lids  laid. 

And  as  I  wake,  sweet  musick  breath 

Above,  about,  or  underneath, 

Sent  by  som  spirit  to  mortals  good, 

Or  th'unseen  Genius  of  the  Wood. 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail, 
To  walk  the  studious  Cloysters  pale, 
And  love  the  high  embowed  Roof, 
With  antick  Pillars  massy  proof, 
And  storied  Windows  richly  dight, 
Casting  a  dimm  religious  light. 
There  let  the  pealing  Organ  blow, 
To  the  full  voic'd  Quire  below, 
In  Service  high,  and  Anthems  cleer, 

M3  3 


JOHN  MILTON 

As  may  with  sweetnes,  through  mine  ear, 

Dissolve  me  into  extasies, 

And  bring  all  Heav'n  before  mine  eyes. 

And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 

Find  out  the  peacefull  hermitage, 

The  Hairy  Gown  and  Mossy  Cell, 

Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell 

Of  every  Star  that  Heav'n  doth  shew. 

And  every  Herb  that  sips  the  dew; 

Till  old  experience  do  attain 

To  somthing  like  Prophetic  strain. 

These  pleasures  Melancholy  give, 

And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 

312.  From  'Arcades' 

E  the  smooth  enameld  green 
Where  no  print  of  step  hath  been, 

Follow  me  as  I  sing, 

And  touch  the  warbled  string. 
Under  the  shady  roof 
Of  branching  Elm  Star-proof, 

Follow  me, 

I  will  bring  you  where  she  sits 
Clad  in  splendor  as  befits 

Her  deity. 
Such  a  rural  Queen 
All  Arcadia  hath  not  seen. 

From  '  Comus  ' 

313'  i 

T^HE  Star  that  bids  the  Shepherd  fold, 
Now  the  top  of  Heav'n  doth  hold, 


JOHN  MILTON 

And  the  gilded  Car  of  Day, 

His  glowing  Axle  doth  allay 

In  the  steep  Atlantick  stream, 

And  the  slope  Sun  his  upward  beam 

Shoots  against  the  dusky  Pole, 

Pacing  toward  the  other  gole 

Of  his  Chamber  in  the  East. 

Mean  while  welcom  Joy,  and  Feast, 

Midnight  shout,  and  revelry, 

Tipsie  dance,  and  Jollity. 

Braid  your  Locks  with  rosie  Twine 

Dropping  odours,  dropping  Wine. 

Rigor  now  is  gon  to  bed, 

And  Advice  with  scrupulous  head, 

Strict  Age,  and  sowre  Severity, 

With  their  grave  Saws  in  slumber  ly. 

We  that  are  of  purer  fire 

Imitate  the  Starry  Quire, 

Who  in  their  nightly  watchfull   Sphears, 

Lead  in  swift  round  the  Months  and  Years. 

The  Sounds,  and  Seas  with  all  their  finny  drove 

Now  to  the  Moon  in  wavering  Morrice  move, 

And  on  the  Tawny  Sands  and  Shelves, 

Trip  the  pert  Fairies  and  the  dapper  Elves; 

By  dimpled  Brook,  and  Fountain  brim, 

The  Wood-Nymphs  deckt  with  Daisies  trim, 

Their  merry  wakes  and  pastimes  keep : 

What  hath  night  to  do  with  sleep  ? 

Night  hath  better  sweets  to  prove, 

Venus  now  wakes,  and  wak'ns  Love.   .   .  . 

Com,  knit  hands,   and  beat  the  ground, 

In  a  light  fantastick  round. 


JOHN  MILTON 

314.  /'/ 

ECHO 

SWEET  Echo,  sweetest  Nymph  that  liv'st  unseen 
Within  thy  airy  shell 
By  slow  Meander's  margent  green, 
And  in  the  violet  imbroider'd  vale 

Where  the  love-lorn  Nightingale 
Nightly  to  thee  her  sad  Song  mourneth   well. 
Canst  thou  not  tell  me  of  a  gentle  Pair 
That  likest  thy  Narcissus  are? 

O  if  thou  have 
Hid  them  in  som  flowry  Cave, 

Tell  me  but  where 

Sweet  Queen  of  Parly,  Daughter  of  the  Sphear  ! 
So  maist  thou  be  translated  to  the  skies, 
And  give  resounding  grace  to  all  Heav'ns  Harmonies  1 


ABRINA 

The  Spirit  sings  : 

C  ABRINA  fair 

^     Listen  where  thou  art  sitting 

Under  the  glassie,  cool,  translucent  wave, 

In  twisted  braids  of  Lillies  knitting 
The  loose  train  of  thy  amber-dropping  hair, 

Listen  for  dear  honour's  sake, 

Goddess  of  the  silver  lake, 

Listen  and  save  ! 
Listen  and  appear  to  us, 
In  name  of  great  Oceanus, 
By  the  earth-shaking  Neptune's  mace, 
And  Tethys  grave  majebiick  pace, 


JOHN  MILTON 

By  hoary  Nereus  wrincled  look, 
And  the  Carpathian  wisards  hook, 
By  scaly  Tritons  winding  shell, 
And  old  sooth-saying  Glaucus  spell, 
By  Leucothea's  lovely  hands, 
And  her  son  that  rules  the  strands, 
By  Thetis  tinsel-slipper'd  feet, 
And  the  Songs  of  Sirens  sweet, 
By  dead  Parthenope's  dear  tomb, 
And  fair  Ligea's  golden  comb, 
Wherwith  she  sits  on  diamond  rocks 
Sleeking  her  soft  alluring  locks, 
By  all  the  Nymphs  that  nightly  dance 
Upon  thy  streams  with  wily  glance, 
Rise,  rise,  and  heave  thy  rosie  head 
From  thy  coral-pa v'n  bed, 
And  bridle  in  thy  headlong  wave, 
Till  thou  our  summons  answered  have. 

Listen  and  save! 
Sabrina  rfpfies: 

By  the  rushy-fringed  bank, 
Where  grows  the  Willow  and  the  Osier  dank, 

My  sliding  Chariot  stayes, 
Thick  set  with  Agat,  and  the  azurn  sheen 
Of  Turkis  blew,  and  Emrauld  green 

That  in  the  channel!  strayes, 
Whilst  from  off  the  waters  fleet 
Thus  I  set  my  printless  feet 
O're  the  Cowslips  Velvet  head, 

That  bends  not  as  I  tread, 
Gentle  swain  at  thy  request 
I  am  here. 


JOHN  MILTON 


316.  rt> 

The  Spirit  epllog utzet  : 

TO  the  Ocean  now  I  fly, 
And  those  happy  climes  that  ly 
Where  day  never  shuts  his  eye, 
Up  in  the  broad  fields  of  the  sky: 
There  I  suck  the  liquid  ayr 
All  amidst  the  Gardens  fair 
Of  Hesperus,  and  his  daughters  three 
That  sing  about  the  golden  tree: 
Along  the  crisped  shades  and  bowres 
Revels  the  spruce  and  jocond  Spring, 
The  Graces,  and  the  rosie-boosom'd  Howres, 
Thither  all  their  bounties  bring, 
That  there  eternal  Summer  dwels, 
And  West  winds,  with  musky  wing 
About  the  cedar'n  alleys  fling 
Nard,  and  Cassia's  balmy  smels. 
Iris  there  with  humid  bow, 
Waters  the  odorous  banks  that  blow 
Flowers  of  more  mingled  hew 
Than  her  purfl'd  scarf  can  shew, 
And  drenches  with   Elysian  dew 
(List  mortals,   if  your  ears  be  true) 
Beds  of  Hyacinth,  and  roses 
Where  young  Adonis  oft  reposes, 
Waxing  well  of  his  deep  wound 
In  slumber  soft,  and  on  the  ground 
Sadly  sits  th'  Assyrian  Queen  ; 
But  far  above  in  spangled   sheen 
934 


JOHN  MILTON 

Celestial  Cupid  her  fam'd  son  advanc't, 
Holds  his  dear  Psyche  sweet  intranc't 
After  her  wandring  labours  long, 
Till  free  consent  the  gods  among 
Make  her  his  eternal  Bride, 
And  from  her  fair  unspotted  side 
Two  blissful  twins  are  to  be  born, 
Youth  and  Joy;    so  Jove  hath  sworn. 

But  now  my  task  is  smoothly  don, 
I  can  fly,  or  I  can  run 
Quickly  to  the  green  earths  end, 
Where  the  bow'd  welkin  slow  doth  bend, 
And  from  thence  can  soar  as  soon 
To  the  corners  of  the  Moon. 

Mortals  that  would  follow  me, 
Love  vertue,   she  alone  is  free. 
She  can  teach  ye  how  to  clime 
Higher  then  the  Spheary  chime ; 
Or  if  Vertue  feeble  were, 
Heav'n  it  self  would  stoop  to  her. 

$17.  Lycidas 

A  Lament  for  a  friend  drowned  in  his  passage  from 
Chester  on  the  Irish   Seas,  l6jj 

VET  once  more,  O  ye  Laurels,   and  once  more 

Ye  Myrtles  brown,  with  Ivy  never-sear, 
1  com  to  pluck  your  Berries  harsh  and  crude, 
And  with  forc'd  fingers  rude, 
Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year. 
Bitter  constraint,  and  sad  occasion  dear, 
Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due : 
For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime 

335 


JOHN  MILTON 

Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer: 
Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas?   he  knew 
Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 
He  must  not  flote  upon  his  watry  bear 
Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind, 
Without  the  meed  of  som  melodious  tear. 

Begin,  then,  Sisters  of  the  sacred  well, 
That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth  spring, 
Begin,  and  somwhat  loudly  sweep  the  string. 
Hence  with  denial  vain,  and  coy  excuse, 
So  may  som  gentle  Muse 
With  lucky  words  favour  my  destin'd  Urn, 
And  as  he  passes  turn, 
And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shrowd. 
For  we  were  nurst  upon  the  self-same  hill, 
Fed  the  same  flock,  by  fountain,   shade,  and  rill. 

Together  both,  ere  the  high   Lawns  appear'd 
Under  the  opening  eye-lids  of  the  morn, 
We  drove  a  field,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  Gray-fly  winds  her  sultry  horn, 
Batt'ning  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of  night, 
Oft  till  the  Star  that  rose,  at  Ev'ning,   bright 
Toward  Heav'ns  descent  had  slop'd  his  westering  wheel. 
Mean  while  the  Rural  ditties  were  not  mute, 
Temper'd  to  th'Oaten  Flute ; 

Rough  Satyrs  danc'd,  and  Fauns  with  clov'n  heel, 
From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent  long, 
And  old  Damztas  lov'd  to  hear  our  song. 

But  O  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art  gon, 
Now  thou  art  gon,  and  never  must  return  ! 
Thee  Shepherd,  thee  the  Woods,  and  desert  Caves, 
With  wilde  Thyme  and  the  gadding  Vine  o'regrown, 
And  all  their  echoes  mourn. 
336 


JOHN  MILTON 

The  Willows,  and  the  Hazle  Copses  green, 

Shall  now  no  more  be  seen, 

Fanning  their  joyous  Leaves  to  thy  soft  layes. 

As  killing  as  the  Cankei   to  the  Rose, 

Or  Taint-worm  to  the  weanling  Herds  that  graze, 

Or  Frost  to   Flowers,  that  their  gay  wardrop  wear, 

When  first  the  White  thorn  blows; 

Such,   Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  Shepherds  ear. 

Where  were  ye  Nymphs  when  the  remorseless  deep 
Clos'd  o're  the  head  of  your  lov'd   Lycidas  ? 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep, 
Where  your  old  Bards,   the  famous  Druids  ly, 
Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high, 
Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wisard  stream  : 
Ay  me,   I  fondJy  dream  ! 

Had  ye  bin  there — for  what  could  that  have  don  ? 
What  could  the  Muse  her  self  that  Orpheus  bore, 
The  Muse  her  self,   for  her  inchanting  son 
Whom  Universal  nature  did  lament, 
When  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous  roar, 
His  goary  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 
Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian  shore. 

Alas !     What  boots  it  with  uncessant  care 
To  tend  the  homely  slighted  Shepherds  trade, 
And  strictly  meditate  the  thankles  Muse, 
Were  it  not  better  don  as  others  use, 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade, 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neaera's  hair? 
Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise 
(That  last  infirmity  of  Noble  mind) 
To  scorn  delights,  and  live  laborious  dayes ; 
But  the  fair  Guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 


JOHN  MILTON 

Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  th'abhorred  shears, 

And  slits  the  thin  spun  life.     But  not  the  praise, 

Phoebus  repli'd,  and  touch'd  my  trembling  ears; 

Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil, 

Nor  in  the  glistering  foil 

Set  off  to  th'world,  nor  in  broad  rumour  lies, 

But  lives  and  spreds  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes, 

And  perfet  witnes  of  all  judging  Jove ; 

As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed, 

Of  so  much  fame  in  Heav'n  expect  thy  meed. 

O  fountain  Arethuse,  and  thou  honour'd  floud, 
Smooth-sliding  Mincius,  crown'd  with  vocall  reeds, 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood: 
But  now  my  Oate  proceeds, 
And  listens  to  the  Herald  of  the  Sea 
That  came  in  Neptune's  plea, 

He  ask'd  the  Waves,  and  ask'd  the  Fellon  winds, 
What  hard  mishap  hath  doom'd  this  gentle  swain? 
And  question'd  every  gust  of  rugged  wings 
That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  Promontory, 
They  knew  not  of  his  story, 
And  sage  Hippotades  their  answer  brings, 
That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon   stray'd, 
The  Ayr  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine, 
Sleek  Panope  with  all  her  sisters  play'd. 
It  was  that  fatall  and  perfidious  Bark 
Built  in  th'eclipse,  and  rigg'd  with  curses  dark, 
That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 

Next  Camus,  reverend  Sire,  went  footing   slow, 
His  Mantle  hairy,  and  his  Bonnet  sedge, 
Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the  edge 
Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscrib'd  with  woe. 
Ah;    Who  hath  reft  (quoth  he)  my  dearest  pledge? 
338 


JOHN  MILTON 

Last  came,  and  last  did  go, 

The  Pilot  of  the  Galilean  lake, 

Two  massy   Keyes  he  bore  of  metals  twain, 

(The  Golden  opes,  the  Iron  shuts  amain) 

He  shook  his  Miter'd  locks,  and  stern  bespake, 

How  well  could  I  have  spar'd  for  thee,   young   swain, 

Anow  of  such  as  for  their  bellies  sake, 

Creep  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold  ? 

Of  other  care  they  little  reck'ning  make, 

Then  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers  feast, 

And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest. 

Blind  mouthes !   that  scarce  themselves  know  how  to  hold 

A  Sheep-hook,   or  have  learn'd  ought  els  the  least 

That  to  the  faithfull  Herdmans  art  belongs ! 

What  recks  it  them  ?   What  need  they  ?    They  are  sped  ; 

And  when  they  list,   their  lean  and  flashy  songs 

Grate  on  their  scrannel  Pipes  of  wretched  straw, 

The  hungry  Sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed, 

But  swoln  with  wind,  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw, 

Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread : 

Besides  what  the  grim  Woolf  with  privy  paw 

Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  sed, 

But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door, 

Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no  more. 

Return  Alpheus,  the  dread  voice  is  past, 
That  shrunk  thy  streams;    Return  Sicilian  Muse, 
And  call  the  Vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  Bels,  and  Flourets  of  a  thousand  hues. 
Ye  valleys  low  where  the  milde  whispers  use, 
Of  shades  and  wanton  winds,   and  gushing  brooks, 
On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart  Star  sparely  looks, 
Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enameld  eyes, 
That  on  the  green  terf  suck  the  honied  showres, 

339 


JOHN  MILTON 

And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowres. 

Bring  the  rathe  Primrose  that  forsaken  dies. 

The  tufted  Crow-toe,  and  pale  Gessamine, 

The  white  Pink,   and  the  Pansie  freakt  with  jeat, 

The  glowing  Violet. 

The  Musk-rose,  and  the  well  attir'd  Woodbine. 

With  Cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive  hed, 

And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears: 

Bid  Amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed, 

And  Daffadillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears, 

To  strew  the  Laureat  Herse  where  Lycid  lies. 

For  so  to  interpose  a  little  ease, 

Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise. 

Ay  me !    Whilst  thee  the  shores,  and  sounding  Seas 

Wash  far  away,  where  ere  thy  bones  are  hurld, 

Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides, 

Where  thou  perhaps  under  the  whelming  tide 

Visit'st  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world ; 

Or  whether  thou  to  our  moist  vows  deny'd, 

Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old, 

Where  the  great  vision  of  the  guarded  Mount 

Looks  toward  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold ; 

Look  homeward  Angel  now,  and  melt  with  ruth. 

And,  O  ye  Dolphins,   waft  the  haples  youth. 

Weep  no  more,  woful  Shepherds  weep  no  more, 
For  Lycidas  your  sorrow  is  not  dead, 
Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watry  floar, 
So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  Ocean  bed, 
And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head, 
And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new  spangled  Ore, 
Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky : 
So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high, 
Through  the  dear  might  of  him  that  walk'd  the  waves 
340 


JOHN  MILTON 

Where  other  groves,   and  other  streams  along, 
With  Nectar  pure  his  oozy  Lock's  he  la\e*, 
And  hears  the  unexpressive  nuptiall  Song, 
In  the  blest  Kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love. 
There  entertain  him  all  the  Saints  above, 
In  solemn  troops,  and  sweet   Societies 
That  sing,  and  singing  in  their  glory  move, 
And  wipe  the  tears  for  ever  from  his  eyes. 
Now  Lycidas  the  Shepherds  weep  no  more; 
Hence  forth  thou  art  the  Genius  of  the  shore, 
In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shall  be  good 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood. 

Thus  sang  the  uncouth   Swain  to  th'Okes  and  rills, 
While  the  still  morn  went  out  with  Sandals  gray, 
He  touch'd  the  tender  stops  of  various  Quills, 
With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Dorick  lay: 
And  now  the  Sun  had  stretch'd  out  all  the  hills, 
And  now  was  dropt  into  the  Western  bay ; 
At  last  he  rose,   and  twitch'd  his  Mantle  blew : 
To  morrow  to  fresh  Woods,  and  Pastures  new. 


317*      To  the  Lady  Margaret  Ley 

P\  A  LIGHTER  to  that  good  Earl,  once  President 

*"^      Of  Englands  Counsel,  and  her  Treasury, 
Who  liv'd  in  both,   unstain'd  with  gold  or  fee, 
And  left  them  both,   more  in  himself  content, 

Till  the  sad  breaking  of  that  Parlament 
Broke  him,  as  that  dishonest  victory 
At  Chacronea,   fatal  to  liberty 
Kil'd  with  report  that  Old  man  eloquent, 

Though  later  born,  then  to  have  known  the  dayes 
Wherin  your  Father  flourisht,   yet  by  you 


JOHN  MILTON 

Madam,  me  thinks  I  see  him  living  yet; 
So  well  your  words  his  noble  vertues  praise, 
That  all  both  judge  you  to  relate  them  true, 
And  to  possess  them,   Honour'd  Margaret. 

318.  On  His  Blindness 

YV7HEN  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent, 

E're  half  my  days,  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  Talent  which  is  death  to  hide, 
Lodg'd  with  me  useless,  though  my  Soul  more  bent 

To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
My  true  account,  least  he  returning  chide, 
Doth  God  exact  day-labour,  light  deny'd, 
I  fondly  ask ;    But  patience  to  prevent 

That  murmur,  soon  replies,   God  doth  not  need 
Either  man's  work  or  his  own  gifts,   who  best 
Bear  his  milde  yoak,  they  serve  him  best,    his   State 

Is  Kingly.     Thousands  at  his  bidding  speed 
And  post  o're  Land  and  Ocean  without  rest: 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  waite. 

5 /p.  To  Mr.  Lawrence 

T  AWRENCE  of  vertuous  Father  vertuous  Son, 

•^     Now  that  the  Fields  are  dank,  and  ways  are  mire. 
Where  shall  we  sometimes  meet,  and  by  the  fire 
Help  wast  a  sullen  day;    what  may  be  won 

From  the  hard  Season  gaining :    time  will  run 
On  smoother,  till  Favonius  re-inspire 
The  frozen  earth  ;   and  cloth  in  fresh  attire 
The  Lillie  and  Rose,  that  neither  sow'd  nor  spun. 

What  neat  repast  shall  feast  us,  light  and  choice, 
Of  Attick  tast,  with  Wine,  whence  we  may  rise 

34' 


JOHN  MILTON 

To  hear  the  Lute  well  toucht,  or  artfull  voice 
Warble  immortal  Notes  and  Tuskan  Ayre  ? 

He  who  of  those  delights  can  judge,  and  spare 
To  interpose  them  oft,  is  not  unwise. 

520.  To  Cfriack  Skinner 

/^YRIACK,  whose  Grandsire  on  the  Royal  Bench 
^•**     Of  Brittish  Themis,  with  no  mean  applause 

Pronounc't  and  in  his  volumes  taught  our  Lawes. 

Which  others  at  their  Barr  so  often  wrench  : 
To  day  deep  thoughts  resolve  with  me  to  drench 

In  mirth,   that  after  no  repenting  drawes ; 

Let  Euclid  rest  and  Archimedes  pause, 

And  what  the  Swede  intend,  and  what  the  French 
To  measure  life,   learn  thou  betimes,  and  know 

Toward  solid  good  what  leads  the  nearest  way ; 

For  other  things  mild  Heav'n  a  time  ordains, 
And  disapproves  that  care,  though  wise  in  show, 

That  with  superfluous  burden  loads  the  day, 

And  when  God  sends  a  cheerful  hour,   refrains. 

321.          On  His  Deceased  Wife 

TV/T  ETHOUGHT  I  saw  my  late  espoused  Saint 
Brought  to  me  like  Alcestis  from  the  grave, 
Whom  Joves  great  Son  to  her  glad  Husband  gave, 
Rescu'd  from  death  by  force  though  pale  and  faint. 

Mine  as  whom  washt  from  spot  of  child-bed  taint, 
Purification  in  the  old  Law  did  save, 
And  such,  as  yet  once  more  I  trust  to  have 
Full  sight  of  her  in  Heaven  without  restraint, 

Came  vested  all  in  white,   pure  as  her  mind : 
Her  face  was  vail'd,   yet  to  my  fancied  sight, 

343 


JOHN  MILTON 

Love,  sweetness,  goodness,  in  her  person  shin'd 
So  clear,  as  in  no  face  with  more  delight. 
But  O  as  to  embrace  me  she  enclin'd 
I  wak'd,  she  fled,  and  day  brought  back  my  night. 

322.  Light 

HAIL  holy  light,  ofspring  of  Heav'n  first-born, 
Or  of  th'   Eternal  Coeternal  beam 
May  I  express  thee  unblam'd  ?    since  God  is  light, 
And  never  but  in  unapproached  light 
Dwelt  from  Eternitie,  dwelt  then  in  thee, 
Bright  effluence  of  bright  essence  increate. 
Or  hear'st  thou  rather  pure  Ethereal  stream, 
Whose  Fountain  who  shall  tell  ?    before  the  Sun, 
Before  the  Heavens  thou  wert,  and  at  the  voice 
Of  God,  as  with  a  Mantle  didst  invest 
The  rising  world  of  waters  dark  and  deep, 
Won  from  the  void  and  formless  infinite. 
Thee  I  re-visit  now  with  bolder  wing, 
Escap't  the  Stygian  Pool,   though  long  detain'd 
In  that  obscure  sojourn,   while  in  my  flight 
Through  utter  and  through  middle  darkness  borne 
With  other  notes  then  to  th'  Orphean  Lyre 
I  sung  of  Chaos  and  Eternal  Night, 
Taught  by  the  heav'nly  Muse  to  venture  down 
The  dark  descent,  and  up  to  reascend, 
Though  hard  and  rare :    thee  I  revisit  safe, 
And  feel  thy  sovran  vital   Lamp ;    but  thou 
Revisit'st  not  these  eyes,  that  rowle  in  vain 
To  find  thy  piercing  ray,  and  find  no  dawn ; 
So  thick  a  drop  serene  hath  quencht  thir  Oibs, 
Or  dim  suffusion  veild.     Yet  not  the  more 


JOHN  MILTON 

Cease  I  to  wander  where  the  Muses  haunt 

Cleer  Spring,  or  shadie  Grove,  or  Sunnie  Hill, 

Smit  with  the  love  of  sacred  song;    but  chief 

Thee  Sion  and  the  flowrie  Brooks  beneath 

That  wash  thy  hallowd  feet,  and  warbling  flow, 

Nightly  I  visit:    nor  somtimes  forget 

Those  other  two  equal'd  with  me  in  Fate, 

So  were  I  equal'd  with  them  in  renown, 

Blind  Thamyris  and  blind  Maeonides, 

And  Tiresias  and  Phineus  Prophets  old. 

Then  feed  on  thoughts,   that  voluntarie  move 

Harmonious  numbers ;    as  the  wakeful   Bird 

Sings  darkling,   and  in  shadiest  Covert  hid 

Tunes  her  nocturnal  Note.     Thus  with  the  Year 

Seasons  return,   but  not  to  me  returns 

Day,   or  the  sweet  approach  of  Ev'n  or  Morn, 

Or  sight  of  vernal  bloom,  or  Summers   Rose, 

Or  flocks,  or  herds,  or  human  face  divine ; 

But  cloud  in  stead,  and  ever-during  dark 

Surrounds  me,   from  the  chearful  waies  of  men 

Cut  off,  and  for  the  Book  of  knowledg  fair 

Presented  with  a  Universal  blanc 

Of  Natures  works  to  mee  expung'd  and  ras'd, 

And  wisdome  at  one  entrance  quite  shut  out. 

So  much  the  rather  thou  Celestial  light 

Shine  inward,  and  the  mind  through  all  her  powers 

Irradiate,  there  plant  eyes,    all  mist  from  thence 

Purge  and  disperse,   that  I  may  see  and  tell 

Of  things  invisible  to  mortal  sight. 


JOHN  MILTON 

From  'Samson  slgonistcs3 
323-  ' 

OH  how  comely  it  is  and  how  reviving 
To  the  Spirits  of  just  men  long  opprest ! 
When  God  into  the  hands  of  thir  deliverer 
Puts  invincible  might 

To  quell  the  mighty  of  the  Earth,  th'  oppressour, 
The  brute  and  boist'rous  force  of  violent  men 
Hardy  and  industrious  to  support 
Tyrannic  power,  but  raging  to  pursue 
The  righteous  and  all  such  as  honour  Truth  ; 
He  all  thir  Ammunition 
And  feats  of  War  defeats 
With  plain  Heroic  magnitude  of  mind 
And  celestial  vigour  arm'd, 
Thir  Armories  and  Magazins  contemns, 
Renders  them  useless,  while 
With  winged  expedition 
Swift  as  the  lightning  glance  he  executes 
His  errand  on  the  wicked,   who  surpris'd 
Lose  thir  defence  distracted  and  amaz'd 

324.  it 

ALL  is  best,  though  we  oft  doubt, 
•**•     What  th'  unsearchable  dispose 
Of  highest  wisdom  brings  about, 
And  ever  best  found  in  the  close. 
Oft  he  seems  to  hide  his  face, 
But  unexpectedly  returns 
And  to  his  faithful  Champion  hath  in  place 
Bore  witness  gloriously;    whence  Gaza  mourns 
346 


JOHN  MILTON 

And  all  that  band  them  to  resist 

His  uncontroulable  intent. 

His  servants  he  with  new  acquist 

Of  true  experience  from  this  great  event 

With  peace  and  consolation  hath  dismist, 

And  calm  of  mind  all  passion  spent. 


SIR   JOHN    SUCKLING 

A  T>oubt  of  Martyrdom 

1609-1642 

/j    FOR  some  honest  lover's  ghost, 
^-^      Some  kind  unbodied  post 

Sent  from  the  shades  below ! 

I  strangely  long  to  know 
Whether  the  noble  chaplets  wear 
Those  that  their  mistress'  scorn  did  bear 

Or  those  that  were  used  kindly. 

For  whatsoe'er  they  tell  us  here 
To  make  those  sufferings  dear, 

'Twill  there,   I  fear,  be  found 

That  to  the  being  crown'd 
T'  have  loved  alone  will  not  suffice, 
Unless  we  also  have  been  wise 

And  have  our  loves  enjoy'd. 

What  posture  can  we  think  him  in 
That,  here  unloved,  again 
Departs,   and  's  thither  gone 
Where  each  sits  by  his  own? 
Or  how  can  that  Elysium  be 
Where  I  my  mistress  still  must  see 
Circled  in  other's  arms  ? 

347 


SIR  JOHN  SUCKLING 

For  there  the  judges  all  are  just, 
And  Sophonisba  must 

Be  his  whom  she  held  dear. 
Not  his  who  loved  her  here. 

The  sweet  Philoclea,   since  she  died. 

Lies  by  her  Pirocles  his  side, 
Not  by  Amphialus. 

Some  bays,  perchance,  or  myrtle  bough 
For  difference  crowns  the  brow 

Of  those  kind  souls  that  were 

The  noble  martyrs  here: 
And  if  that  be  the  only  odds 
(As  who  can  tell  ?),  ye  kinder  gods, 

Give  me  the  woman  here  ! 


O1 


$26.  The  Constant  Lover 

|UT  upon  it,   I  have  loved 

Three  whole  days  together ! 
And  am  like  to  love  three  more. 

If  it  prove  fair  weather. 
Time  shall  moult  away  his  wings 

Ere  he  shall  discover 
In  the  whole  wide  world  again 

Such  a  constant  lover. 
But  the  spite  on  't  is,  no  praise 

Is  due  at  all  to  me: 
Love  with  me  had  made  no  stays, 

Had  it  any  been  but  she. 
Had  it  any  been  but  she, 

And  that  very  face, 
There  had  been  at  least  ere  this 

A  dozen  dozen  in  her  place. 
S48 


SIR  JOHN  SUCKLING 

327-        Why  so  Tale  and  Wan  ? 

WfHY  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lovei  ? 

**       Prithee,   why  so  pale? 
Will,  when  looking  well  can't  move  her, 

Looking  ill  prevail? 

Prithee,  why  so  pale  ? 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,   young  sinner? 

Prithee,   why  so  mute  ? 
Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her, 

Saying  nothing  do  't  ? 

Prithee,  why  so  mute? 

Quit,  quit  for  shame  !    This  will  not  move  ; 

This  cannot  take  her. 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 

Nothing  can  make  her: 

The  devil  take  her  ! 

328.  If  hen,  "Dearest,  I  but  think  of  Thee 


dearest,   I  but  think  of  thee, 
Methinks  all  things  that  lovely  be 
Are  present,  and  my  soul  delighted  : 
For  beauties  that  from  worth  arise 
Are  like  the  grace  of  deities, 

Still  present  with  us,  tho'  unsighted. 

Thus  while  I  sit  and  sigh  the  day 
With  all  his  borrow'd  lights  away, 

Till  night's  black  wings  do  overtake  me, 
Thinking  on  thee,  thy  beauties  then, 
As  sudden  lights  do  sleepy  men, 

So  they  by  their  bright  rays  awake  me. 

349 


SIR  JOHN  SUCKLING 

Thus  absence  dies,  and  dying  proves 
No  absence  can  subsist  with  loves 

That  do  partake  of  fair  perfection : 
Since  in  the  darkest  night  they  may 
By  love's  quick  motion  find  a  way 

To  see  each  other  by  reflection. 

The  waving  sea  can  with  each  flood 
Bathe  some  high  promont  that  hath  stood 

Far  from  the  main  up  in  the  river : 
O  think  not  then  but  love  can  do 
As  much !    for  that 's  an  ocean  too, 

Which  flows  not  every  day,  but  ever ! 


SIR   RICHARD    FANSHAWE 

329.  A  Rose 

1608-1666 

DLOWN  in  the  morning,  thou  shah  fade  ere  noon. 

*~*     What  boots  a  life  which  in  such  haste  forsakes  thee  ? 

Thou'rt  wondrous  frolic,  being  to  die  so  soon, 

And  passing  proud  a  little  colour  makes  thee. 

If  thee  thy  brittle  beauty  so  deceives, 

Know  then  the  thing  that  swells  thee  is  thy  bane; 

For  the  same  beauty  doth,  in  bloody  leaves, 

The  sentence  of  thy  early  death  contain. 

Some  clown's  coarse  lungs  will  poison  thy  sweet  flower, 

If  by  the  careless  plough  thou  shall  be  torn ; 

And  many  Herods  lie  in  wait  each  hour 

To  murder  thee  as  soon  as  thou  art  born — 

Nay,  force  thy  bud  to  blow — their  tyrant  breath 

Anticipating  life,  to  hasten  death  ! 


WILLIAM  CARTWRIGHT 
3  30.  To  Chloe: 

Who  for    hit    sake    wished  herself  younger 

1611-164* 

nnHERE  are  two  births;   the  one  when  light 
*•       First  strikes  the  new  awaken'd  sense; 
The  other  when  two  souls  unite, 

And  we  must  count  our  life  from  thence: 
When  you  loved  me  and  I  loved  you 
Then  both  of  us  were  born  anew. 

Love  then  to  us  new  souls  did  give 

And  in  those  souls  did  plant  new  powers ; 

Since  when  another  life  we  live, 

The  breath  we  breathe  is  his,  not  ours: 

Love  makes  those  young  whom  age  doth  chill. 

And  whom  he  finds  young  keeps  young  still. 

3$  l.  Falsehood 

CTILL  do  the  stars  impart  their  light 

To  those  that  travel  in  the  night ; 
Still  time  runs  on,  nor  doth  the  hand 
Or  shadow  on  the  dial  stand ; 
The  streams  still  glide  and  constant  are : 

Only  thy  mind 

Untrue  I   find, 

Which  carelessly 

Neglects  to  be 
Like  stream  or  shadow,  hand  or  star. 

Fool  that  I  am !    I  do  recall 

My  words,  and  swear  thou'rt  like  them  all: 

351 


WILLIAM  CARTWRIGHT 

Thou  seem'st  like  stars  to  nourish  fire, 
But  O  how  cold  is  thy  desire  ! 
And  like  the  hand  upon  the  brass 

Thou  point'st  at  me 

In  mockery; 

If  I  come  nigh 

Shade-like  thou'lt  fly, 
And  as  the  stream  with  murmur  pass. 


JJ2.  On  the  Queen's  Return  from  the  Low 
Countries 

HALLOW  the  threshold,  crown  the  posts  anew  1 
The  day  shall  have  its  due. 
Twist  all  our  victories  into  one  bright  wreath, 

On  which  let  honour  breathe ; 
Then  throw  it  round  the  temples  of  our  Queen ! 
'Tis  she  that  must  preserve  those  glories  green. 

When  greater  tempests  than  on  sea  before 

Received  her  on  the  shore ; 
When  she  was  shot  at  'for  the  King's  own  good* 

By  legions  hired  to  blood; 
How  bravely  did  she  do,  how  bravely  bear  ! 
And  show'd,  though  they  durst  rage,  she  durst  not  fear 

Courage  was  cast  about  her  like  a  dress 

Of  solemn  comeliness : 
A  gather'd  mind  and  an  untroubled  face 

Did  give  her  dangers  grace: 
Thus,  arm'd  with  innocence,  secure  they  move 
Whose  highest  'treason'  is  but  highest  love. 


WILLIAM  CARTWRIGHT 

333-  On  a  Virtuous  Toung  Gentlewoman 

that  died  suddenly 

CHE  who  to  Heaven  more  Heaven  doth  annex, 
^     Whose  lowest  thought  was  above  all  our  sex, 
Accounted  nothing  death  but  t'  be  reprieved, 
And  died  as  free  from  sickness  as  she  lived. 
Others  are  dragg'd  away,  or  must  be  driven, 
She  only  saw  her  time  and  slept  to  Heaven; 
Where  seraphims  view  all  her  glories  o'er, 
As  one  return'd  that  had  been  there  before. 
For  while  she  did  this  lower  world  adorn, 
Her  body  seem'd  rather  assumed  than  born ; 
So  ratified,  advanced,  so  pure  and  whole, 
That  body  might  have  been  another's  soul ; 
And  equally  a  miracle  it  were 
That  she  could  die,  or  that  she  could  live  here. 

JAMES  GRAHAM,  MARQUIS  OF  MONTROSE 
/'//  never  love  Thee  more 

i6ia-i6fo 

MY  dear  and  only  Love,  I  pray 
That  little  world  of  thee 
Be  govern'd  by  no  other  sway 

Than  purest  monarchy ; 
For  if  confusion  have  a  part 

(Which  virtuous  souls  abhor), 
And  hold  a  synod  in  thine  heart, 
I'll  never  love  thee  more. 

Like  Alexander  I  will  reign, 

And  I  will  reign  alone; 
My  thoughts  did  evermore  disdain 

A  rival  on  my  throne. 

N  353 


MARQUIS  OF   MONTROSE 

He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 

Or  his  deserts  are  small, 
That  dares  not  put  it  to  the  touch, 

To  gain  or  lose  it  all. 
And  in  the  empire  of  thine  heart, 

Where  I  should  solely  be, 
If  others  do  pretend  a  part 

Or  dare  to  vie  with  me, 
Or  if  Committees  thou  erect, 

And  go  on  such  a  score, 
I'll  laugh  and  sing  at  thy  neglect, 

And  never  love  thee  more. 

But  if  thou  wilt  prove  faithful  then, 

And  constant  of  thy  word, 
I'll  make  thee  glorious  by  my  pen 

And  famous  by  my  sword; 
I'll  serve  thee  in  such  noble  ways 

Was  never  heard  before ; 
I'll  crown  and  deck  thee  all  with  bays, 

And  love  thee  more  and  more. 

THOMAS  JORDAN 

337.  Coronemus  nos  Jtosis  antetjuam 
marcescant 

T   ET  us  drink  and  be  merry,  dance,  joke,  and  rejoice, 
^~*     With  claret  and  sherry,  theorbo  and  voice ! 
The  changeable  world  to  our  joy  is  unjust, 

All  treasure's  uncertain, 

Then  down  with  your  dust ! 

In  frolics  dispose  your  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence, 
For  we  shall  be  nothing  a  hundred  years  hence. 

354 


THOMAS  JORDAN 

We'll   sport  and  be  free  with  Moll,  Betty,  and  Dolly, 
Have  oysters  and  lobsters  to  cure  melancholy : 
Fish-dinners  will  make  a  man  spring  like  a  flea, 

Dame  Venus,  love's  lady, 

Was  born  of  the  sea : 

With  her  and  with  Bacchus  we'll  tickle  the  sense, 
For  we  shall  be  past  it  a  hundred  years  hence. 

Your  most  beautiful  bride  who  with  garlands  is  crown'd 
And  kills  with  each  glance  as  she  treads  on  the  ground. 
Whose  lightness  and  brightness  doth  shine  in  such  splendour 

That  none  but  the  stars 

Are  thought  fit  to  attend  her, 

Though  now  she  be  pleasant  and  sweet  to  the  sense, 
Will  be  damnable  mouldy  a  hundred  years  hence. 

Then  why  should  we  turmoil  in  cares  and  in  fears, 

Turn  all  our  tranquill'ty  to  sighs  and  to  tears  t 

Let 's  eat,  drink,  and  play  till  the  worms  do  corrupt  us, 

'Tis  certain,   Post  mortem 

Nulla  voluptas. 

For  health,  wealth  and  beauty,  wit,  learning  and  sense, 
Must  all  come  to  nothing  a  hundred  years  hence. 

RICHARD   CRASHAW 

Wishes  to  His  Supposed  Mistress 

1613?-!  649 

'HOE'ER  she  be- 
That  not  impossible  She 
That  shall  command  my  heart  and  me: 

Where'er  she  lie, 

Lock'd  up  from  mortal  eye 

In  shady  leaves  of  destiny : 


RICHARD  CRASHAW 

Till  that  ripe  birth 

Of  studied  Fate  stand  forth, 

And  teach  her  fair  steps  to  our  earth : 

Till  that  divine 

Idea  take  a  shrine 

Of  crystal  flesh,  through  which  to  shine : 

Meet  you  her,  my  Wishes, 
Bespeak  her  to  my  blisses, 
And  be  ye  call'd  my  absent  kisses. 

I  wish  her  Beauty, 

That  owes  not  all  its  duty 

To  gaudy  tire,  or  glist'ring  shoe-tie: 

Something  more  than 
Taffata  or  tissue  can, 
Or  rampant  feather,  or  rich  fan. 

A  Face,  that's  best 

By  its  own  beauty  drest, 

And  can  alone  commend  the  rest. 

A  Face,  made  up 

Out  of  no  other  shop 

Than  what  Nature's  white  hand  sets  ope. 

A  Cheek,  where  youth 

And  blood,  with  pen  of  truth, 

Write  what  the  reader  sweetly  ru'th. 

A  Cheek,  where  grows 
More  than  a  morning  rose, 
Which  to  no  box  his  being  owes. 

taft 


RICHARD  CRASHAW 

Lips,  where  all  day 

A  lover's  kiss  may  play, 

Yet  carry  nothing  thence  away. 

Looks,  that  oppress 

Their  richest  tires,  but  dress 

And  clothe  their  simplest  nakedness. 

Eyes,  that  displace 

The  neighbour  diamond,  and  outface 

That  sunshine  by  their  own  sweet  grace. 

Tresses,   that  wear 

Jewels  but  to  declare 

How  much  themselves  more  precious  are: 

Whose  native  ray 

Can  tame  the  wanton  day 

Of  gems  that  in  their  bright  shades  play. 

Each  ruby  there, 

Or  pearl  that  dare  appear, 

Be  its  own  blush,  be  its  own  tear. 

A  well-tamed  Heart, 

For  whose  more  noble  smart 

Love  may  be  long  choosing  a  dart. 

Eyes,   that  bestow 

Full  quivers  on  love's  bow, 

Yet  pay  less  arrows  than  they  owe. 

Smiles,  that  can  warm 

The  blood,  yet  teach  a  charm, 

That  chastity  shall  take  no  harm. 


RICHARD  CRASHAW 

Blushes,  that  bin 

The  burnish  of  no  sin, 

Nor  flames  of  aught  too  hot  within. 

Joys,  that  confess 

Virtue  their  mistress, 

And  have  no  other  head  to  dress. 

Fears,   fond  and  slight 

As  the  coy  bride's,  when  night 

First  does  the  longing  lover  right. 

Days,  that  need  borrow 

No  part  of  their  good-morrow 

From  a  fore-spent  night  of  sorrow. 

Days,   that  in  spite 

Cf  darkness,  by  the  light 

Of  a  clear  mind,   are  day  all  night. 

Nights,  sweet  as  they, 

Made  short  by  lovers'  play, 

Yet  long  by  th*  absence  of  the  day. 

Life,   that  dares  send 

A  challenge  to  his  end, 

And  when  it  comes,  say,  '  Welcome,   friend  ! ' 

Sydneian  showers 

Of  sweet  discourse,   whose  powers 

Can  crown  old  Winter's  head  with  flowers. 

Soft  silken  hours, 
Open  suns,  shady  bowers ; 
'Bove  all,  nothing  within  that  lowers. 
$58 


RICHARD  CRASHAW 

Whate'er  delight 

Can  make  Day's  forehead  bright, 

Or  give  down  to  the  wings  of  Night 

I  wish  her  store 

Of  worth  may  leave  her  poor 

Of  wishes;    and  I  wish — no  more. 

Now,  if  Time  knows 

That  Her,  whose  radiant  brows 

Weave  them  a  garland  of  my  vows  5 

Her,  whose  just  bays 

My  future  hopes  can  raise, 

A  trophy  to  her  present  praise; 

Her,  that  dares  be 

What  these  lines  wish  to  see; 

I  seek  no  further,  it  is  She. 

'Tis  She,  and  here, 

Lo  !    I  unclothe  and  clear 

My  Wishes'  cloudy  character. 

May  she  enjoy  it 

Whose  merit  dare  apply  it, 

But  modesty  dares  still  deny  it ! 

Such  worth  as  this  is 
Shall  fix  my  flying  Wishes, 
And  determine  them  to  kisses. 

Let  her  full  glory. 

My  fancies,  fly  before  ye; 

Be  ye  my  fictions — but  her  story. 


RICHARD  CRASHAW 
.  The  deeper 

LJAIL,  sister  springs, 
•*•  -1      Parents  of  silver-footed  rills ! 
Ever  bubbling  things, 
Thawing  crystal,   snowy  hills ! 

Still  spending,  never  spent ;    I  mean 
Thy  fair  eyes,  sweet  Magdalene. 

Heavens  thy  fair  eyes  be; 
Heavens  of  ever-falling  stars ; 

Tis  seed-time  still  with  ther, 
And  stars  thou  sow'st  whose  harvest  dares 
Promise  the  earth  to  countershine 
Whatever  makes  Heaven's  forehead  fine. 

Every  morn  from  hence 
A  brisk  cherub  something  sips 

Whose  soft  influence 
Adds  sweetness  to  his  sweetest  lips; 
Then  to  his  music:    and  his  song 
Tastes  of  this  breakfast  all  day  long. 

When  some  new  bright  guest 
Takes  up  among  the  stars  a  room, 
And  Heaven  will  make  a  feast, 
Angels  with  their  bottles  come, 

And  draw  from  these  full  eyes  of  thine 
Their  Master's  water,  their  own  wine. 

The  dew  no  more  will  weep 
The  primrose's  pale  cheek  to  deck ; 

The  dew  no  more  will  sleep 
Nuzzled  in  the  lily's  neck : 

Much  rather  would  it  tremble  here, 
And  leave  them  both  to  be  thy  tear. 
360 


RICHARD  CRASHAW 

When  sorrow  would  be  seen 
In  her  brightest  majesty, 

— For  she  is  a  Queen — 
Then  is  she  drest  by  none  but  thee : 
Then  and  only  then  she  wears 
Her  richest  pearls — I  mean  thy  tears. 

Not  in  the  evening's  eyes, 
When  they  red  with  weeping  are 

For  the  Sun  that  dies, 
Sits  Sorrow  with  a  face  so  fair. 

Nowhere  but  here  did  ever  meet 
Sweetness  so  sad,   sadness  so  sweet. 

Does  the  night  arise  ? 
Still  thy  tears  do  fall  and  fall. 

Does  night  lose  her  eyes? 
Still  the  fountain  weeps  for  all. 

Let  day  and  night  do  what  they  will, 
Thou  hast  thy  task,   thou  weepest  still. 

Not  So  long  she  lived 
Will  thy  tomb  report  of  thee ; 

But  So  long  she  grieved: 
Thus  must  we  date  thy  memory. 

Others  by  days,   by  months,  by  years, 
Measure  their  ages,   thou  by  tears. 

Say,  ye  bright  brothers, 
The  fugitive  sons  of  those  fair  eyes 

Your  fruitful  mothers, 

What  make  you  here  ?    What  hopes  can  'tice 
You  to  be  born  ?    What  cause  can  borrow 
You  from  those  nests  of  noble  sorrow? 
N3  361 


RICHARD  CRASHAW 

Whither  away  so  fast? 
For  sure  the  sordid  earth 

Your  sweetness  cannot  taste, 
Nor  does  the  dust  deserve  your  birth. 

Sweet,  whither  haste  you  then  ?    O  say, 
Why  you  trip  so  fast  away  ? 

We  go  not  to  seek 
The  darlings  of  Aurora  s  bed. 

The  rose's  modest  cheek, 
Nor  the  violet's  humble  head. 

No  such  thing  :    <we  go  to  meet 

A  worthier  object — our  Lord's  feet. 


$$8.  A  Hymn  to  the  Name  and  Honour 
of  the  Admirable  Saint  Teresa 

T   OVE,  thou  art  absolute,  sole  Lord 
•*-'     Of  life  and  death.     To  prove  the  word, 
We'll  now  appeal  to  none  of  all 
Those  thy  old  soldiers,  great  and  tall, 
Ripe  men  of  martyrdom,  that  could  reach  down 
With  strong  arms  their  triumphant  crown  : 
Such  as  could  with  lusty  breath 
Speak  loud,  unto  the  face  of  death, 
Their  great  Lord's  glorious  name ;    to  none 
Of  those  whose  spacious  bosoms  spread  a  throne 
For  love  at  large  to  fill.     Spare  blood  and  sweat : 
We'll  see  Him  take  a  private  seat, 
And  make  His  mansion  in  the  mild 
And  milky  soul  of  a  soft  child. 
36* 


RICHARD  CRASHAW 

Scarce  has  she  learnt  to  lisp  a  name 

Of  martyr,  yet  she  thinks  it  shame 

Life  should  so  long  play  with  that  breath 

Which  spent  can  buy  so  brave  a  death. 

She  never  undertook  to  know 

What  death  with  love  should  have  to  do. 

Nor  has  she  e'er  yet  understood 

Why,  to  show  love,  she  should  shed  blood ; 

Yet,  though  ?he  cannot  tell  you  why, 

She  can  love,  and  she  can  die. 

Scarce  has  she  blood  enough  to  make 

A  guilty  sword  blush  for  her  sake ; 

Yet  has  a  heart  dares  hope  to  prove 

How  much  less  strong  is  death  than  love.   .   . 

Since  'tis  not  to  be  had  at  home, 

She'll  travel  for  a  martyrdom. 

No  home  for  her,   confesses  she, 

But  where  she  may  a  martyr  be. 

She'll  to  the  Moors,   and  trade  with  them 

For  this  unvalued  diadem  ; 

She  offers  them  her  dearest  breath, 

With  Christ's  name  in   't,  in  change  for  death 

She'll  bargain  with  them,  and  will  give 

Them  God,  and  teach  them  how  to  live 

In  Him  ;   or,  if  they  this  deny, 

For  Him  she'll  teach  them  how  to  die. 

So  shall  she  leave  amongst  them  sown 

Her  Lord's  blood,  or  at  least  her  own. 

Farewell  then,  all  the  world,   adieu  ! 
Teresa  is  no  more  for  you. 
Farewell  all  pleasures,   sports,  and  joys. 
Never  till  now  esteemed  toys ! 

363 


RICHARD  CRASHAW 

Farewell  whatever  dear  may  be — 
Mother's  arms,  or  father's  knee! 
Farewell  house,  and  farewell  home ! 
She's  for  the  Moors  and  Martyrdom. 

Sweet,  not  so  fast ;   lo !    thy  fair  spouse, 
Whom  thou  seek'st  with  so  swift  vows, 
Calls  thee  back,  and  bids  thee  come 
T'  embrace  a  milder  martyrdom.  .  .  . 

O   how  oft  shah  thou  complain 

Of  a  sweet  and  subtle  pain ! 

Of  intolerable  joys ! 

Of  a  death,   in  which  who  dies 

Loves  his  death,  and  dies  again, 

And  would  for  ever  so  be  slain ; 

And  lives  and  dies,  and  knows  not  why 

To  live,  but  that  he  still  may  die! 

How  kindly  will   thy  gentle  heart 

Kiss  the  sweetly-killing  dart ! 

And  close  in  his  embraces  keep 

Those  delicious  wounds,   that  weep 

Balsam,  to  heal  themselves  with  thus, 

When  these  thy  deaths,  so  numerous, 

Shall  all  at  once  die  into  one, 

And  melt  thy  soul's  sweet  mansion ; 

Like  a  soft  lump  of  incense,   hasted 

By  too  hot  a  fire,  and  wasted 

Into  perfuming  clouds,   so  fast 

Shalt  thou  exhale  to  heaven  at  last 

In  a  resolving  sigh,   and  then, — 

O  what?    Ask  not  the  tongues  of  men. 

Angels  cannot  tell ;    suffice, 
Thyself  shalt  feel  thine  own  full  joys, 
364 


RICHARD  CRASHAW 

And  hold  them  fast  for  ever  there. 

So  soon  as  thou  shah  first  appear, 

The  moon  of  maiden  stars,  thy  white 

Mistress,  attended  by  such  bright 

Souls  as  thy  shining  self,   shall  come, 

And  in  her  first  ranks  make  thee  room ; 

Where,  'mongst  her  snowy  family, 

Immortal  welcomes  wait  for  thee. 

O  what  delight,   when  she  shall  stand 

And  teach  thy  lips  heaven,  with  her  hand, 

On  which  thou  now  may'st  to  thy  wishes 

Heap  up  thy  consecrated  kisses  ! 

What  joy  shall  seize  thy  soul,   when  she, 

Bending  her  blessed  eyes  on  thee, 

Those  second  smiles  of  heaven,   shall  dart 

Her  mild  rays  through  thy  melting  heart ! 

Angels,   thy  old  friends,  there  shall  greet  thee, 

Glad  at  their  own  home  now  to  meet  thee. 

All  thy  good  works  which  went  before, 

And  waited  for  thee  at  the  door, 

Shall  own  thee  there ;   and  all  in  one 

Weave  a  constellation 

Of  crowns,   with  which  the   King,   thy  spouse, 

Shall  build  up  thy  triumphant  brows. 

All  thy  old  woes  shall  now  smile  on  thee, 

And  thy  pains  sit  bright  upon  thee  : 

All  thy  sorrows  here  shall  shine, 

And  thy  sufferings  be  divine. 

Tears  shall  take  comfort,   and  turn  gems, 

And  wrongs  repent  to  diadems. 

Even  thy  deaths  shall  live,   and  new 

Dress  the  soul  which  late  they  slew. 

365 


RICHARD  CRASHAW 

Thy  wounds  shall  blush  to  such  bright  scars 
As  keep  account  of  the  Lamb's  wars. 

Those  rare  works,   where  thou  shall  leave  writ 
Love's  noble  history,  with  wit 
Taught  thee  by  none  but  Him,  while  here 
They  feed  our  souls,  shall  clothe  thine  there. 
Each  heavenly  word  by  whose  hid  flame 
Our  hard  hearts  shall  strike  fire,   the  same 
Shall  flourish  on  thy  brows,   and  be 
Both  fire  to  us  and  flame  to  thee  ; 
Whose  light  shall  live  bright  in  thy  face 
By  glory,  in  our  hearts  by  grace. 
Thou  shall  look  round  about,  and  see 
Thousands  of  crown'd  souls  throng  to  be 
Themselves  thy  crown,  sons  of  thy  vows, 
The  virgin-birlhs  with  which  thy  spouse 
Made  fruitful  thy  fair  soul ;   go  now, 
And  with  them  all  about  thee  bow 
To  Him ;   put  on,   He'll  say,  put  on, 
My  rosy  Love,  that  thy  rich  zone, 
Sparkling  with  the  sacred  flames 
Of  thousand  souls,  whose  happy  names 
Heaven  keeps  upon  thy  score:   thy  bright 
Life  brought  them  first  to  kiss  the  light 
That  kindled  them  to  stars  ;   and  so 
Thou  with  the  Lamb,  thy  Lord,  shall  go. 
And,   wheresoe'er  He  sets  His  white 
Steps,  walk  with  Him  those  ways  of  light, 
Which  who  in  death  would  live  to  see, 
Must  learn  in  life  to  die  like  thee. 


RICHARD  CRASHAW 

339'    Upon  the  Book  and  Picture  of  the 
Seraphical  Saint  Teresa 

f~\  THOU  undaunted  daughter  of  desires  ! 

^-^      By  all  thy  dower  of  lights  and  fires; 

By  all  the  eagle  in  thee,  all  the  dove; 

By  all  thy  lives  and  deaths  of  love ; 

By  thy  large  draughts  of  intellectual  day, 

And  by  thy  thirsts  of  love  more  large  than  they ; 

By  all  thy  brim-fill'd  bowls  of  fierce   desire, 

By  thy  last  morning's  draught  of  liquid  fire; 

By  the  full  kingdom  of  that  final  kiss 

That  seized  thy  parting  soul,  and  seal'd  thee  His ; 

By  all  the  Heav'n  thou  hast  in   Him 

(Fair  sister  of  the  seraphim!); 

By  all  of  Him  we  have  in  thee  ; 

Leave  nothing  of  myself  in  me. 

Let  me  so  read  thy  life,   that  I 

Unto  all  life  of  mine  may  die! 

^40.  Verses  from  the  Shepherds'  Hymn 

WfE  saw  Thee  in  Thy  balmy  nest, 
**      Young  dawn  of  our  eternal  day ; 

We  saw  Thine  eyes  break  from  the  East, 
And  chase  the  trembling  shades  away : 

We  saw  Thee,  and  we  blest  the  sight, 

We  saw  Thee  by  Thine  own  sweet  light. 

Poor  world,   said  I,   what  wilt  thou  do 

To  entertain  this  starry  stranger? 
Is  this  the  best  thou  canst  bestow — 

A  cold  and  not  too  cleanly  manger? 

367 


RICHARD  CRASHAW 

Contend,  the  powers  of  heaven  and  earth, 
To  fit  a  bed  for  this  huge  birth. 

Proud  world,  said  I,  cease  your  contest, 
And  let  the  mighty  babe  alone ; 

The  phoenix  builds  the  phoenix*  nest, 
Love's  architecture  is  His  own. 

The  babe,  whose  birth  embraves  this  morn, 

Made  His  own  bed  ere  He  was  born. 

I  saw  the  curl'd  drops,  soft  and  slow, 
Come  hovering  o'er  the  place's  head, 

OfFring  their  whitest  sheets  of  snow, 
To  furnish  the  fair  infant's  bed. 

Forbear,   said  I,  be  not  too  bold ; 

Your  fleece  is  white,  but  'tis  too  cold. 

I  saw  th'  obsequious  seraphim 
Their  rosy  fleece  of  fire  bestow. 

For  well  they  now  can  spare  their  wings, 
Since  Heaven  itself  lies  here  below. 

Well  done,  said  I ;    but  are  you  sure 

Your  down,  so  warm,  will  pass  for  pure  ? 

No,  no,  your  King 's  not  yet  to  seek 
Where  to  repose  His  royal  head  ; 

See,  see  how  soon  His  new-bloom'd  cheek 
'Twixt  mother's  breasts  is  gone  to  bed ! 

Sweet  choice,  said  we ;    no  way  but  so, 

Not  to  lie  cold,  yet   sleep  in  snow ! 

She  sings  Thy  tears  asleep,  and  dips 
Her  kisses  in  Thy  weeping  eye; 

She  spreads  the  red  leaves  of  Thy  lips, 
That  in  their  buds  yet  blushing  lie. 

368 


RICHARD  CRASHAW 

She  'gainst  those  mother  diamonds  tries 
The  points  of  her  young  eagle's  eyes. 

Welcome— tho'  not  to  those  gay  flies, 
Gilded  i'  th'  beams  of  earthly  kings, 

Slippery  souls  in  smiling  eyes — 

But  to  poor  shepherds,   homespun  things, 

Whose  wealth 's  their  flocks,   whose  wit 's  to  be 

Well  read  in  their  simplicity. 

Yet,  when  young  April's  husband  show'rs 
Shall  bless  the  fruitful  Maia's  bed, 

We'll  bring  the  first-born  of  her  flowers, 
To  kiss  Thy  feet  and  crown  Thy  head. 

To  Thee,  dread  Lamb !    whose  love  must  keep 

The  shepherds  while  they  feed  their  sheep. 

To  Thee,   meek  Majesty,   soft  King 
Of  simple  graces  and  sweet  loves! 

Each  of  us  his  lamb  will  bring, 
Each  his  pair  of  silver  doves! 

At  last,   in  fire  of  Thy  fair  eyes, 

Ourselves  become  our  own  best  sacrifice ! 

1.  Christ  Crucified 

HTHY  restless  feet  now  cannot  go 
•*•     For  us  and  our  eternal  good, 
As  they  were  ever  wont.     What  though 
They  swim,  alas !    in  their  own  flood  ? 

Thy  hands  to  give  Thou  canst  not  lift, 
Yet  will  Thy  hand  still  giving  be; 

It  gives,  but  O,   itself 's  the  gift! 

It  gives  tho'  bound,  tho'  bound  'tis  free ! 

369 


RICHARD  CRASHAW 
An  Epitaph  upon  Husband  and  Wife 

Who  died  and  -were  burled  together. 
O  those  whom  death  again  did  wed 

This  grave  's  the  second  marriage-bed. 
For  though  the  hand  of  Fate  could  force 
'Twixt  soul  and  body  a  divorce, 
It  could  not  sever  man  and  wife, 
Because  they  both  lived  but  one  life. 
Peace,  good  reader,  do  not  weep; 
Peace,  the  lovers  are  asleep. 
They,  sweet  turtles,  folded  lie 
In  the  last  knot  that  love  could  tie. 
Let  them  sleep,  let  them  sleep  on, 
Till  the  stormy  night  be  gone, 
And  the  eternal  morrow  dawn ; 
Then  the  curtains  will  be  drawn, 
And  they  wake  into  a  light 
Whose  day  shall  never  die  in  night. 

RICHARD  LOVELACE 

.  To  Lucas  ta,  going  to  the  Wars 

1618-1658 

"""TELL  me  not,   Sweet,   I  am  unkind, 
•*•     That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind 
To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase, 

The  first  foe  in  the  field ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 
87° 


RICHARD  LOVELACE 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  thou  too  shalt  adore ; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  Dear,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  Honour  more. 


I 


.   To  Lucasta,  going  beyond  the  Seas 

F  to  be  absent  were  to  be 

Away  from  thee ; 
Or  that  when  I  am  gone 
You  or  I  were  alone  ; 
Then,   my  Lucasta,   might  I  crave 
Pity  from  blustering  wind  or  swallowing  wave. 

But  I'll  not  sigh  one  blast  or  gale 

To  swell  my  sail, 
Or  pay  a  tear  to  'suage 
The  foaming  blue  god's  rage ; 
For  whether  he  will  let  me  pass 
Or  no,   I'm  still  as  happy  as  I  was. 

Though  seas  and  land  betwixt  us  both, 

Our  faith  and  troth, 
Like  separated  souls, 
All  time  and  space  controls  : 
Above  the  highest  sphere  we  meet 
Unseen,  unknown ;    and  greet  as  Angels  greet. 

So  then  we  do  anticipate 

Our  after- fate, 
And  are  alive  i'  the  skies, 
If  thus  our  lips  and  eyes 
Can  speak  like  spirits  unconfined 
In  Heaven,  their  earthy  bodies  left  behind. 

37« 


RICHARD  LOVELACE 


.  Gratiana   'Dancing 

CHE  beat  the  happy  pavement — 
^   By  such  a  star  made  firmament, 
Which  now  no  more  the  roof  envies ! 
But  swells  up  high,  with  Atlas  even, 
Bearing  the  brighter  nobler  heaven, 
And,  in  her,  all  the  deities. 

Each  step  trod  out  a  Lover's  thought, 
And  the  ambitious  hopes  he  brought 

Chain'd  to  her  brave  feet  with  such  arts, 
Such  sweet  command  and  gentle  awe, 
As,   when  she  ceased,   we  sighing  saw 
The  floor  lay  paved  with  broken  hearts. 


To  Amarantha,  that  she  would 
dishevel  her  Hair 

AMARANTHA  sweet  and  fair, 
**'  Ah,  braid  no  more  that  shining  hair! 
As  my  curious  hand  or  eye 
Hovering  round  thee,  let  it  fly ! 

Let  it  fly  as  unconfmed 
As  its  calm  ravisher  the  wind, 
Who  hath  left  his  darling,   th'  East, 
To  wanton  o'er  that  spicy  nest. 

Every  tress  must  be  confest, 
But  neatly  tangled  at  the  best ; 
Like  a  clew  of  golden  thread 
Most  excellently  ravelled. 


RICHARD  LOVELACE 

Do  not  then  wind  up  that  light 

In  ribbands,   and  o'ercloud  in  night, 

Like  the  Sun  in  's  early  ray ; 

But  shake  your  head,   and  scatter  day ! 

47.  The  Grasshopper 

OTHOU  that  swing'st  upon  the  waving  hair 
Of  some  well-filled  oaten  beard. 
Drunk  every  night  with  a  delicious  tear 

Dropt  thee  from  heaven,   where  thou  wert  rear'd 

The  joys  of  earth  and  air  are  thine  entire, 

That  with   thy  feet  and  wings  dost  hop  and  fly; 

And  when  thy  poppy  works,  thou  dost  retire 
To  thy  carved  acorn-bed  to  lie. 

Up  with  the  day,  the   Sun  thou  welcom'st  then. 

Sport'st  in  the  gilt  plaits  of  his  beams, 
And  all  these  merry  days  mak'st  merry  men, 

Thyself,  and  melancholy  streams. 

4.?.         To  Althea,  from  "Prison 

VVTHEN  Love  with  unconfined  wings 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  the  grates ; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair 

And  fetter'd  to  her  eye, 
The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round 
With  no  allaying  Thames, 


RICHARD  LOVELACE 

Our  careless  heads  with  roses  bound, 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames ; 
When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep, 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free — 
Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When,  like  committed  linnets,   I 

With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty, 

And  glories  of  my   King  ; 
When  I  shall  voice  aloud  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be, 
Enlarged  winds,  that  curl  the  flood, 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage ; 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love 

And  in  my  soul  am  free, 
Angels  alone,   that  soar  above, 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 

ABRAHAM  COWLEY 
Anacreontics 

34P-  /•    Drinking 

1618-1667 

"THE  thirsty  earth  soaks  up  the  rain, 
1     And  drinks  and  gapes  for  drink  again; 
The  plants  suck  in  the  eaith,  and  are 
With  constant  drinking  fresh  and   fair; 

374 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY 

The  sea  itself  (which  one  would  think 
Should  have  but  little  need  of  drink) 
Drinks  twice  ten  thousand  rivers  up, 
So  fill'd  that  they  o'erflow  the  cup. 
The  busy  Sun  (and  one  would  guess 
By  's  drunken  fiery  face  no  less) 
Drinks  up  the  sea,  and  when  he's  done, 
The  Moon  and  Stars  drink  up  the  Sun: 
They  drink  and  dance  by  their  own  light, 
They  drink  and  revel  all  the  night: 
Nothing  in  Nature  's  sober  found, 
But  an  eternal  health  goes  round. 
Fill  up  the  bowl,  then,  fill  it  high, 
Fill  all  the  glasses  there — for  why 
Should  every  creature  drink  but  I? 
Why,   man  of  morals,  tell  me  why? 

2.    The  Epicure 

T  TNDERNEATH  this  myrtle  shade, 
^^      On  flowery  beds  supinely  laid, 

With  odorous  oils  my  head  o'erflowing, 

And  around  it  roses  growing, 

What  should  I  do  but  drink  away 

The  heat  and  troubles  of  the  day? 

In  this  more  than  kingly  state 

Love  himself  on  me  shall  wait. 

Fill  to  me,   Love  !    nay,  fill  it  up ! 

And  mingled  cast  into  the  cup 

Wit  and  mirth  and  noble  fires, 

Vigorous  health  and  gay  desires. 

The  wheel  of  life  no  less  will  stay 

In  a  smooth  than  rugged  way : 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY 

Since  it  equally  doth  flee, 
Let  the  motion  pleasant  be. 
Why  do  we  precious  ointments  shower  ?- 
Nobler  wines  why  do  we  pour  ? — 
Beauteous  flowers  why  do  we  spread 
Upon  the  monuments  of  the  dead  ? 
Nothing  they  but  dust  can  show, 
Or  bones  that  hasten  to  be  so. 
Crown  me  with  roses  while  I  live, 
Now  your  wines  and  ointments  give : 
After  death  I  nothing  crave, 
Let  me  alive  my  pleasures  have: 
All  are  Stoics  in  the  grave. 


j.    The  Swallow 

"COOLISH  prater,  what  dost  thou 
•*•     So  early  at  my  window  do  ? 
Cruel  bird,   thou'st  ta'en  away 
A  dream  out  of  my  arms  to-day; 
A  dream  that  ne'er  must  equall'd  be 
By  all  that  waking  eyes  may  see. 
Thou  this  damage  to  repair 
Nothing  half  so  sweet  and  fair, 
Nothing  half  so  good,   canst  bring, 
Tho'  men  say  thou  bring'st  the  Spring. 


3?2.  On  the  'Death  of  Mr.  William  Hervey 

TT  was  a  dismal  and  a  fearful  night: 

Scarce  could  the  Morn  drive  on  th'  unwilling  Light, 
When  Sleep,   Death's  image,   left  my  troubled  breast 
By  something  liker  Death  possest. 

376 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY 

My  eyes  with  tears  did  uncommanded  flow, 

And  on  my  soul  hung  the  dull  weight 
Of  some  intolerable  fate. 

What  bell  was  that  ?     Ah  me !   too  much  I  know  ! 

My  sweet  companion  and  my  gentle  peer, 
Why  hast  thou  left  me  thus  unkindly  here, 
Thy  end  for  ever  and  my  life  to  moan  ? 

O,   thou  hast  left  me  all  alone ! 
Thy  soul  and  body,  when  death's  agony 
Besieged  around  thy  noble  heart, 
Did  not  with  more  reluctance  part 
Than  I,  my  dearest  Friend,  do  part  from  thee. 

My  dearest  Friend,  would  I  had  died  for  thee! 
Life  and  this  world  henceforth  will  tedious  be: 
Nor  shall  I  know  hereafter  what  to  do 

If  once  my  griefs  prove  tedious  too. 
Silent  and  sad  I  walk  about  all  day, 

As  sullen  ghosts  stalk  speechless  by 

Where  their  hid  treasures  lie ; 


Say,  for  you  saw  us,  ye  immortal  lights, 
How  oft  unwearied  have  we  spent  the  nights, 
Till  the  Ledxan  stars,  so  famed  for  love, 

Wonder'd  at  us  from  above ! 
We  spent  them  not  in  toys,   in  lusts,  or  wine; 

But  search  of  deep  Philosophy, 

Wit,   Eloquence,  and  Poetry — 
Arts  which  I  loved,  for  they,  my  Friend,  were  thine. 

Ye  fields  of  Cambridge,   our  dear  Cambridge,   say 
Have  ye  not  seen  us  walking  every  day  ? 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY 

Was  there  a  tree  about  which  did  not  know 

The  love  betwixt  us  two? 

Henceforth,  ye  gentle  trees,  for  ever  fade; 
Or  your  sad  branches  thicker  join 

And  into  darksome   shades  combine, 
Dark  as  the  grave  wherein  my  Friend  is  laid! 

Large  was  his  soul :   as  large  a  soul  as  e'er 

Submitted  to  inform  a  body  here ; 

High  as  the  place  'twas  shortly  in  Heaven  to  have, 

But  low  and  humble  as  his  grave. 
So  high  that  all  the  virtues  there  did  come, 

As  to  their  chiefest  seat 

Conspicuous  and  great ; 
So  low,  that  for  me  too  it  made  a  room. 

Knowledge  he  only  sought,  and  so  soon  caught 
As  if  for  him   Knowledge  had  rather  sought ; 
Nor  did  more  learning  ever  crowded  lie 

In  such  a  short  mortality. 
Whene'er  the  skilful  youth  discoursed  or  writ, 

Still  did  the  notions  throng 

About  his  eloquent  tongue ; 
Nor  could  his  ink  flow  faster  than  his  wit. 

His  mirth  was  the  pure  spirits  of  various  wit, 

Yet  never  did  his  God  or  friends  forget; 

And  when  deep  talk  and  wisdom  came  in  view, 
Retired,   and  gave  to  them  their  due. 

For  the  rich  help  of  books  he  always  took, 

Though  his  own  searching  mind  before 
Was  so  with  notions  written  o'er, 

As  if  wise  Nature  had  made  that  her  book. 
378 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY 

With  as  much  zeal,   devotion,   piety, 

He  always  lived,   as  other  saints  do  die. 

Still  with  his  soul  severe  account  he  kept, 
Weeping  all  debts  out  ere  he  slept. 

Then  down  in  peace  and  innocence  he  lay, 
Like  the  Sun's  laborious  light, 
Which  still  in  water  sets  at  night, 

Unsullied  with  his  journey  of  the  day. 

But  happy  Thou,  ta'en  from  this  frantic  age, 

Where  ignorance  and  hypocrisy  does  rage  ! 

A  fitter  time  for  Heaven  no  soul  e'er  chose  — 
The  place  now  only  free  from  those. 

There  'mong  the  blest  thou  dost  for  ever  shine ; 
And  wheresoe'er  thou  casts  thy  view 
Upon  that  white  and  radiant  crew, 

See'st  not  a  soul  clothed  with  more  light  than  thin?. 


r3>  The  Wish 

VVTELL  then  !    I  now  do  plainly  see 

**      This  busy  world  and  I  shall  ne'er  agree. 
The  very  honey  of  all  earthly  joy 
Does  of  all  meats  the  soonest  cloy  ; 

And  they,   methinks,  deserve  my  pity 
Who  for  it  can  endure  the  stings, 
The  crowd  and  buzz  and  murmurings, 

Of  this  great  hive,   the  city. 

Ah,   yet,  ere  I  descend  to  the  grave 
May  I  a  small  house  and  large  garden  have ; 
And  a  few  friends,  and  many  books,   both  true, 
Both  wise,   and  both  delightful  too ! 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY 

And  since  love  ne'er  will  from  me  flee, 
A  Mistress  moderately  fair, 
And  good  as  guardian  angels  are, 

Only  beloved  and  loving  me. 

O  fountains!   when  in  you  shall  I 

Myself  eased  of  unpeaceful  thoughts  espy  ? 

O  fields  !   O  woods !    when,  when  shall  I  be  made 

The  happy  tenant  of  your  shade  ? 

Here's  the  spring-head  of  Pleasure's  flood: 
Here's  wealthy  Nature's   treasury, 
Where  all  the  riches  lie  that  she 

Has  coin'd  and  stamp'd  for  good. 

Pride  and  ambition  here 

Only  in  far-fetch'd  metaphors  appear; 

Here  nought  but  winds  can  hurtful  murmurs  scatter, 

And  nought  but  Echo  flatter. 

The  gods,  when  they  descended,  hither 
From  heaven  did  always  choose  their  way  : 
And  therefore  we  may  boldly  say 

That  'tis  the  way  too  thither. 

How  happy  here  should  I 
And  one  dear  She  live,  and  embracing  die ! 
She  who  is  all  the  world,   and  can  exclude 
In  deserts  solitude. 

I  should  have  then  this  only  fear : 
Lest  men,  when  they  my  pleasures  see. 
Should  hither  throng  to  live  like  me. 

And  so  make  a  city  here. 


380 


ALEXANDER  BROME 

The  Resolve 

1620-1666 

""TELL  me  not  of  a  face  that 's  fair, 
*•    Nor  lip  and  cheek  that's  red, 
Nor  of  the  tresses  of  her  hair, 

Nor  curls  in  order  laid, 
Nor  of  a  rare  seraphic  voice 

That  like  an  angel  sings; 
Though  if  I  were  to  take  my  choice 

I  would   have  all  these  things  : 
But  if  that  thou  wilt  have  me  love, 

And  it  must  be  a  she, 
The  only  argument  can  move 

Is  that  she  will  love  me. 

The  glories  of  your  ladies  be 

But  metaphors  of  things, 
And  but  resemble  what  we  see 

Each  common  object  brings. 
Roses  out-red  their  lips  and  cheeks, 

Lilies  their  whiteness  stain ; 
What  fool  is  he  that  shadows  seeks 

And  may  the  substance  gain  ? 
Then  if  thou'lt  have  me  love  a  lass, 

Let  it  be  one  that 's  kind  : 
Else  I'm  a  servant  to  the  glass 

That 's  with  Canary  lined. 


ANDREW  MARVELL 
An  Horatian  Ode 

ubon   Cromwell's  Return  from   Ireland 


T 


1621-1678 

HE  forward  youth  that  would  appear 
Must  now  forsake  his  Muses  dear, 
Nor  in  the  shadows  sing 
His  numbers  languishing. 


Tis  time  to  leave  the  books  in  dust, 
And  oil  the  unused  armour's  rust, 

Removing  from  the  wall 

The  corslet  of  the  hall. 

So  restless  Cromwell  could  not  cease 
In  the  inglorious  arts  of  peace, 

But  through  adventurous  war 

Urged  his  active  star : 

And  like  the  three-fork'd  lightning,   first 
Breaking  the  clouds  where  it  was  nurst, 

Did  thorough  his  own  side 

His  fiery  way  divide : 

For  'tis  all  one  to  courage  high, 
The  emulous,  or  enemy  ; 

And  with  such,  to  enclose 

Is  more  than  to  oppose. 

Then  burning  through  the  air  he  went 
And  palaces  and  temples  rent ; 
And  Caesar's  head  at  last 
Did  through  his  laurels  blast. 


ANDREW  MARVELL 

Tis  madness  to  resist  or  blame 
The  face  of  angry  Heaven's  flame ; 
And  if  we  would  speak  true, 
Much  to  the  man  is  due, 

Who,   from  his  private  gardens,   where 
He  lived  reserved  and  austere 

(As  if  his  highest  plot 

To  plant  the  bergamot), 

Could  by  industrious  valour  climb 
To  ruin  the  great  work  of  time, 

And  cast  the  Kingdoms  old 

Into  another  mould ; 

Though  Justice  against  Fate  complain, 
And  plead  the  ancient  rights  in  vain — 
But  those  do  hold  or  break 
As  men  are  strong  or  weak — 

Nature,   that  hateth  emptiness, 

Allows  of  penetration  less, 

And  therefore  must  make  room 
Where  greater  spirits  come. 

What  field  of  all  the  civil  war 
Where  his  were  not  the  deepest  scar? 

And  Hampton  shows  what  part 

He  had  of  wiser  art ; 

Where,  twining  subtle  fears  with  hope, 
He  wove  a  net  of  such  a  scope 

That  Charles  himself  might  chase 
To  Caresbrooke's  narrow  case; 


ANDREW  MARVELL 

That  thence  the  Royal  actor  borne 
The  tragic  scaffold  might  adorn : 
While  round  the  armed  bands 
Did  clap  their  bloody  hands. 

He  nothing  common  did  or  mean 

Upon  that  memorable  scene, 
But  with  his  keener  eye 
The  axe's  edge  did  try ; 

Nor  calPd  the  gods,  with  vulgar  spite, 
To  vindicate  his  helpless  right ; 

But  bow'd  his  comely  head 

Down,  as  upon  a  bed. 

This  was   that  memorable  hour 
Which  first  assured  the  forced  power : 

So  when  they  did  design 

The  Capitol's  first  line, 

A  Bleeding  Head,  where  they  begun, 
Did  fright  the  architects  to  run  ; 

And  yet  in  that  the  State 

Foresaw  its   happy  fate! 

And  now  the  Irish  are  ashamed 
To  see  themselves  in  one  year  tamed  : 
So  much  one  man  can  do 
That  does  both  act  and  know. 

They  can  affirm  his  praises  best, 
And  have,  though  overcome,  confest 
How  good  he  is,  how  just 
And  fit  for  highest  trust. 


ANDREW  MARVELL 

Nor  yet  grown  stifFer  with  command, 
But  still  in  the  republic's  hand — 

How  fit  he  is  to  sway 

That  can  so  well  obey ! 

He  to  the  Commons'  feet  presents 
A  Kingdom  for  his  first  year's  rents, 
And,  what  he  may,   forbears 
His  fame,  to  make  it  theirs : 

And  has  his  sword  and  spoils  ungirt 
To  lay  them  at  the  public's  skirt. 
So  when  the  falcon  high 
Falls  heavy  from  the  sky, 

She,   having  kill'd,   no  more  doth  search 
But  on  the  next  green  bough  to  perch ; 
Where,   when  he  first  does  lure, 
The  falconer  has  her  sure. 

What  may  not  then  our  Isle   presume 
While  victory  his  crest  does  plume  ? 
What  may  not  others  fear, 
If  thus  he  crowns  each  year  ? 

As  Caesar  he,  ere  long,  to  Gaul, 
To  Italy  an  Hannibal, 

And  to  all  States  not  free 

Shall  climacteric  be. 

The  Pict  no  shelter  now  shall  find 

Within  his  particolour'd  mind, 
But,  from  this  valour,   sad 
Shrink  underneath  the  plaid ; 

o  3% 


ANDREW  MARVELL 

Happy,  if  in  the  tufted  brake 
The  English  hunter  him  mistake, 

Nor  lay  his  hounds  in  near 

The  Caledonian  deer. 

But  thou,  the  war's  and  fortune's  son, 

March  indefatigably  on  ; 

And  for  the  last  effect, 
Still  keep  the  sword  erect : 

Besides  the  force  it  has  to  fright 
The  spirits  of  the  shady  night, 
The  same  arts  that  did  gain 
A  power,   must  it   maintain. 


A  Garden 

Written  after  the    Civil  Wart 

CEE  how  the  flowers,    as  at  parade, 

^      Under  their  colours  stand  display'd : 

Each  regiment  in  order  grows, 

That  of  the  tulip,  pink,  and  rose. 

But  when  the  vigilant  patrol 

Of  stars  walks  round  about  the  pole, 

Their  leaves,  that  to  the  stalks  are  curl'd. 

Seem  to  their  staves  the  ensigns  furl'd. 

Then  in  some  flower's  beloved  hut 

Each  bee,  as  sentinel,   is  shut, 

And  sleeps  so  too  ;    but  if  once  stirr'd, 

She  runs  you  through,  nor  asks  the  word. 


ANDREW  MARVELL 

O  thou,  that  dear  and  happy  Isle, 
The  garden  of  the  world  erewhile, 
Thou  Paradise  of  the  four  seas 
Which  Heaven  planted  us  to  please, 
But,  to  exclude  the  world,  did  guard 
With  wat'ry  if  not  flaming  sword ; 
What  luckless  apple  did  we  taste 
To  make  us  mortal  and  thee  waste  ! 
Unhappy!    shall  we  never  more 
That  sweet  militia  restore, 
When  gardens  only  had  their  towers, 
And  all  the  garrisons  were  flowers  ; 
When  roses  only  arms  might  bear, 
And  men  did  rosy  garlands  wear  ? 


.  To  His  Coy  Mistress 

LJTAD   we  but  world  enough,   and   time, 

This  coyness,    Lady,   were  no  crime 
We  would  sit  down  and  think  which  way 
To  walk  and  pass  our  long  love's  day. 
Thou  by  the  Indian  Ganges'  side 
Shouldst  rubies  find :    I  by  the  tide 
Of  Humber  would  complain.     I   would 
Love  you  ten  years  before  the  Flood, 
And  you  should,   if  you  please,   refuse 
Till  the  conversion  of  the  Jews. 
My  vegetable  love  should  grow  . 
Vaster  than  empires,   and  more  slow; 
An  hundred  years  should  go  to  praise 
Thine  eyes  and  on  thy  forehead  gaze; 

387 


ANDREW  MARVELL 

Two  hundred  to  adore  each  breast, 

But  thirty  thousand  to  the  rest; 

An  age  at  least  to  every  part, 

And  the  last  age  should  show  your  hear' 

For,   Lady,  you  deserve  this  state, 

Nor  would  I  love  at  lower  rate. 

But  at  my  back  I  always  hear 
Time's  winged  chariot  hurrying  near; 
And  yonder  all  before  us  lie 
Deserts  of  vast  eternity. 
Thy  beauty  shall  no  more  be  found, 
Nor,  in  thy  marble  vault,  shall  sound 
My  echoing  song:    then  worms  shall  try 
That  long  preserved  virginity, 
And  your  quaint  honour  turn  to  dust, 
And  into  ashes  all  my  lust : 
The  grave  's  a  fine  and  private  place, 
But  none,   I  think,  do  there  embrace. 

Now  therefore,  while  the  youthful  hue 
Sits  on  thy  skin  like  morning  dew, 
And  while  thy  willing  soul  transpires 
At  every  pore  with  instant  fires, 
Now  let  us  sport  us  while  we  may, 
And  now,  like  amorous  birds  of  prey, 
Rather  at  once  our  time  devour 
Than  languish  in  his  slow-chapt  power. 
Let  us  roll  all  our  strength  and  all 
Our  sweetness  up  into  one  ball, 
And  tear  our  pleasures  with  rough  strife 
Thorough  the  iron  gates  of  life : 
Thus,  though  we  cannot  make  our  sun 
Stand  still,  yet  we  will  make  him  run. 
slow-chapt]  slow-jawed,  slowly  devouring. 


ANDREW  MARVELL 

3?8.    The  'Picture  of  Little  T.  C.  in  a 
Prospecf  of  Flowers 

SEE  with  what  simplicity 
This  nymph  begins  her  golden  days ! 
In  the  green  grass  she  loves  to  lie, 
And  there  with  her  fair  aspect  tames 
The  wilder  flowers,   and  gives  them  names ; 
But  only  with  the  roses  plays, 

And  them  does  tell 
What  colour  best  becomes  them,  and  what  smell. 

Who  can  foretell  for  what  high  cause 
This  darling  of  the  gods  was  born  ? 

Yet  this  is  she  whose  chaster  laws 
The  wanton  Love  shall  one  day  fear, 
And,  under  her  command  severe, 

See  his  bow  broke  and  ensigns  torn. 
Happy  who  can 
Appease  this  virtuous  enemy  of  man  ! 

O  then  let  me  in  time  compound 
And  parley  with  those  conquering  eyes, 

Ere  they  have  tried  their  force  to  wound : 
Ere  with  their  glancing  wheels  they  drive 
In  triumph  over  hearts  that  strive, 

And  them  that  yield  but  more  despise: 

Let  me  be  laid, 
Where  I  may  see  the  glories  from  some  shade. 

Meantime,   whilst  every  verdant  thing 
Itself  does  at  thy  beauty  charm, 

389 


ANDREW  MARVELL 

Reform  the  errors  of  the  Spring ; 
Make  that  the  tulips  may  have  share 
Of  sweetness,  seeing  they  are  fair, 
And  roses  of  their  thorns  disarm ; 

But  most  procure 
That  violets  may  a  longer  age  endure. 

But  O,  young  beauty  of  the  woods, 
Whom  Nature  courts  with  fruits  and  flowers, 

Gather  the  flowers,  but  spare  the  buds; 
Lest  Flora,  angry  at  thy  crime 
To  kill  her  infants  in  their  prime, 
Do  quickly  make  th'  example  yours; 
And  ere  we  see, 
Nip  in  the  blossom  all  our  hopes  and  thee. 


.  Thoughts  in  a  Garden 

T_T  OW  vainly  men  themselves  amaze 
•*•          To  win  the  palm,  the  oak,  or  bays, 
And  their  incessant  labours  see 
Crown'd  from  some  single  herb  or  tree, 
Whose  short  and  narrow-verged  shade 
Does  prudently  their  toils  upbraid; 
While  all  the  flowers  and  trees  do  close 
To  weave  the  garlands  of  repose ! 

Fair  Quiet,  have  I  found  thee  here, 
And  Innocence  thy  sister  dear? 
Mistaken  long,  1  sought  you  then 
In  busy  companies  of  men: 


ANDREW  MARVELL 

Your  sacred  plants,  if  here  below, 
Only  among  the  plants  will  grow: 
Society  is  all  but  rude 
To  this  delicious  solitude. 

No  white  nor  red  was  ever  seen 

So  amorous  as  this  lovely  green. 

Fond  lovers,  cruel  as  their  flame, 

Cut  in  these  trees  their  mistress'  name : 

Little,  alas !    they  know  or  heed 

How  far  these  beauties  hers  exceed ! 

Fair  trees  !    wheres'e'er  your  barks  I  wound. 

No  name  shall  but  your  own  be  found. 

When  we  have  run  our  passions'  heat, 
Love  hither  makes  his  best  retreat : 
The  gods,  that  mortal  beauty  chase. 
Still  in  a  tree  did  end  their  race; 
Apollo  hunted  Daphne  so 
Only  that  she  might  laurel  grow  $ 
And  Pan  did  after  Syrinx  speed 
Not  as  a  nymph,  but  for  a  reed. 

What  wondrous  life  is  this  I  lead ! 
Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head; 
The  luscious  clusters  of  the  vine 
Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  wine; 
The  nectarine  and  curious  peach 
Into  my  hands  themselves  do  reach ; 
Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass. 
Ensnared  with  flowers,   I  fall  on  grass. 

Meanwhile  the  mind  from  pleasure  less 
Withdraws  into  its  happiness ; 

S9> 


ANDREW  MARVELL 

The  mind,  that  ocean  where  each  kind 
Does  straight  its  own  resemblance  find ; 
Yet  it  creates,  transcending  these, 
Far  other  worlds,  and  other  seas ; 
Annihilating  all  that 's  made 
To  a  green  thought  m  a  green  shade. 

Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot, 
Or  at  some  fruit-tree's  mossy  root, 
Casting  the  body's  vest  aside, 
My  soul  into  the  boughs  does  glide ; 
There,  like  a  bird,   it  sits  and  sings, 
Then  whets  and  combs  its  silver  wings. 
And,  till  prepared  for  longer  flight, 
Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light. 

Such  was  that  happy  Garden-state 
While  man  there  walk'd  without  a  mate : 
After  a  place  so  pure  and  sweet, 
What  other  help  could  yet  be  meet! 
But  'twas  beyond  a  mortal's  share 
To  wander  solitary  there  : 
Two  paradises  'twere  in  one, 
To  live  in  Paradise  alone. 

How  well  the  skilful  gard'ner  drew 

Of  flowers  and  herbs  this  dial  new! 

Where,  from  above,  the  milder  sun 

Does  through  a  fragrant  zodiac  run: 

And,  as  it  works,  th'  industrious  bee 

Computes  its  time  as  well  as  we. 

How  could  such  sweet  and  wholesome  hours 

Be  reckon'd,  but  with  herbs  and  flowers : 

39* 


ANDREW  MARVELL 


3  60.  Bermudas 


the  remote  Bermudas  ride 
In  the  ocean's  bosom  unespied, 
From  a  small  boat  that  row'd  along 
The  listening  winds  received  this  song  : 

'  What  should  we  do  but  sing  His  praise 
That  led  us  through  the  watery  maze 
Unto  an  isle  so  long  unknown, 
And  yet  far  kinder  than  our  own  ? 
Where  He  the  huge  sea-monsters  wracks. 
That  lift  the  deep  upon  their  backs, 
He  lands  us  on  a  grassy  stage, 
Safe  from  the  storms'  and  prelates'  rage? 
He  gave  us  this  eternal  Spring 
Which  here  enamels  everything, 
And  sends  the  fowls  to  us  in  care 
On  daily  visits  through  the  air  : 
He  hangs  in  shades  the  orange  bright 
Like  golden  lamps  in  a  green  night, 
And  does  in  the  pomegranates  close 
Jewels  more  rich  than  Ormus  shows  : 
He  makes  the  figs  our  mouths  to  meet 
And  throws  the  melons  at  our  feet  ; 
But  apples  plants  of  such  a  price, 
No  tree  could  ever  bear  them  twice. 
With  cedars  chosen  by  His  hand 
From  Lebanon  He  stores  the  land  ; 
And  makes  the  hollow  seas  that  roar 
Proclaim  the  ambergris  on  shore. 
He  cast  (of  which  we  rather  boast) 
The  Gospel's  pearl  upon  our  coast; 

03  395 


ANDREW  MARVELL 

And  in  these  rocks  for  us  did  frame 
A  temple  where  to  sound  His  name. 
O,  let  our  voice  His  praise  exalt 
Till  it  arrive  at  Heaven's  vault, 
Which  thence  (perhaps)  rebounding  may 
Echo  beyond  the  Mexique  bay  !  ' 

Thus  sung  they  in  the  English  boat 
A  holy  and  a  cheerful  note : 
And  all  the  way,  to  guide  their  chime, 
With  falling  oars  they  kept  the  time. 


$6 1.  An  Epitaph 

CNOUGH;    and  leave  the  rest  to  Fame! 

'Tis  to  commend  her,   but  to  name. 
Courtship  which,   living,  she  declined, 
When  dead,   to  offer  were  unkind : 
Nor  can  the  truest  wit,  or  friend, 
Without  detracting,  her  commend. 

To  say — she  lived  a  virgin  chaste 
In  this  age  loose  and  all  unlaced ; 
Nor  was,   when  vice  is  so  allowed, 
Of  virtue  or  ashamed  or  proud ; 
That  her  soul  was  on  Heaven  so  bent, 
No  minute  but  it  came  and  went ; 
That,  ready  her  last  debt  to  pay, 
She  summ'd  her  life  up  every  day; 
Modest  as  morn,  as  mid-day  bright, 
Gentle  as  evening,   cool  as  night : 
— 'Tis  true ;    but  all  too  weakly  said. 
Twas  more  significant,  she 's  dead 
394 


HENRY  VAUGHAN 

$62.  The  £e treat 

1631-1695 

LJAPPY  those  early  days,  when  I 

Shined  in  my  Angel-infancy  ! 
Before  I  understood  this  place 
Appointed  for  my  second  race, 
Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  aught 
But  a  white  celestial  thought : 
When  yet  I  had  not  walk'd  above 
A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  Love, 
And  looking  back — at  that  short  space — 
Could  see  a  glimpse  of  His  bright  face: 
When  on  some  gilded  cloud,  or  flow'r, 
My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  hour, 
And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 
Some  shadows  of  eternity: 
Before  I  taught  my  tongue  to  wound 
My  Conscience  with  a  sinful  sound, 
Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispense 
A  several  sin  to  ev'ry  sense, 
But  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dress 
Bright  shoots  of  everlastingness. 

O  how  I  long  to  travel  back, 
And  tread  again  that  ancient  track  ! 
That  I  might  once  more  reach  that  plain 
Where  first  I   left  my  glorious  train  ; 
From  whence  th'  enlighten 'd  spirit  sees 
That  shady  City  of  Palm-trees. 
But  ah  !    my  soul  with  too  much  stay 
Is  drunk,  and  staggers  in  the  way ! 

395 


HENRY  VAUGHAN 

Some  men  a  forward  motion  love, 
But  I  by  backward  steps  would  move; 
And  when  this  dust  falls  to  the  urn, 
In  that  state  I  came,   return. 

3^3.  Peace 

MY  soul,  there  is  a  country 
Far  beyond  the  stars, 
Where  stands  a  winged  sentry 

All  skilful  in  the  wars: 
There,  above  noise  and  danger, 

Sweet  Peace  sits  crown'd  with  smiles, 
And  One  born  in  a  manger 

Commands  the  beauteous  files. 
He  is  thy  gracious  Friend, 

And — O  my  soul,  awake!  — 
Did  in  pure  love  descend 

To  die  here  for  thy  sake. 
If  thou  canst  get  but  thither, 

There  grows  the  flower  of  Peace, 
The  Rose  that  cannot  wither, 

Thy  fortress,  and  thy  ease. 
Leave  then  thy  foolish  ranges; 

For  none  can  thee  secure 
But  One  who  never  changes — 

Thy  God,  thy  life,  thy  cure. 

$64.  The  Timber 

CURE  thou  didst  flourish  once!    and  many  springs, 
^     Many  bright  mornings,  much  dew,  many  showers, 
Pass'd  o'er  thy  head;    many  light  hearts  and  wings, 
Which  now  are  dead,  lodged  in  thy  living  bowers. 
396 


HENRY  VAUGHAN 

And  still  a  new  succession  sings  and  flies ; 

Fresh  groves  grow  up,  and  their  green  branches  shoot 
Towards  the  old  and  still  enduring  skies, 

While  the  low  violet  thrives  at  their  root. 

But  thou  beneath  the  sad  and  heavy  line 

Of  death,  doth  waste  all  senseless,   cold,   and  dark ; 

Where  not  so  much  as  dreams  of  light  may  shine, 
Nor  any  thought  of  greenness,   leaf,  or  bark. 

And  yet — as  if  some  deep  hate  and  dissent, 

Bred  in  thy  growth  betwixt  high  winds  and  thee, 

Were  still  alive — thou  dost  great  storms  resent 

Before  they  come,  and  know'st  how  near  they  be. 

Else  all  at  rest  thou  liest,  and  the  fierce  breath 
Of  tempests  can  no  more  disturb  thy  ease ; 

But  this  thy  strange  resentment  after  death 

Means  only  those  who  broke — in  life — thy  peace. 


Friends  "Departed 

T^HEY  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light ! 
•*•       And  I  alone  sit  ling'ring  here; 
Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast, 
Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove, 
Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  this  hill  is  drest 
After  the  sun's  remove. 


HENRY  VAUGHAN 

I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory, 

Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days: 

My  days,  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and  hoary, 

Mere  glimmering  and  decays. 

O  holy  Hope !    and  high  Humility, 

High  as  the  heavens  above  ! 

These  are  your  walks,  and  you  have  show'd  them  me, 
To  kindle  my  cold  love. 

Dear,  beauteous  Death  !    the  jewel  of  the  Just, 

Shining  nowhere,  but  in  the  dark ; 
What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust, 
Could  man  outlook  that  mark  ! 

He  that  hath  found  some  fledged  bird's  nest  may  know, 

At  first  sight,   if  the  bird  be  flown ; 

But  what  fair  well  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 

That  is  to  him  unknown. 

And  yet  as  Angels  in  some  brighter  dreams 
Call  to  the  soul,   when  man  doth  sleep : 
So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our  wonted  themes. 
And  into  glory  peep. 

If  a  star  were  confined  into  a  tomb, 

Her  captive  flames  must  needs  burn  there ; 
But  when  the  hand  that  lock'd  her  up  gives  room, 
She'll  shine  through  all  the  sphere. 

O  Father  of  eternal  life,   and  all 

Created  glories  under  Thee ! 
Resume  Thy  spirit  from  this  world  of  thrall 
Into  true  liberty. 

39» 


HENRY  VAUGHAN 

Either  disperse  these  mists,  which  blot  and  fill 

My  perspective  still  as  they  pass : 
Or  else  remove  me  hence  unto  that  hill, 
Where  I  shall  need  no  glass. 


JOHN   BUNYAN 

$66.    The  Shepherd  Sojy  sings  in  the 
f^alley  of  Humiliation 

i 

L_I  E  that  is  down  needs  fear  no  fall, 
•*•  *•      He  that  is  low,  no  pride; 
He  that  is  humble  ever  shall 
Have  God  to  be  his  guide. 

I  am  content  with  what  I  have, 

Little  be  it  or  much : 
And,    Lord,   contentment  still  I  crave, 

Because  Thou  savest  such. 

Fullness  to  such  a  burden  is 

That  go  on  pilgrimage : 
Here  little,   and  hereafter  bliss, 

Is  best  from  age  to  age. 


BALLADS  AND  SONGS  BY  UNKNOWN 
AUTHORS 

$67.  Thomas  the  Rhymer 

HTRUE  Thomas  lay  on  Huntlie  bank; 

•*•      A  ferlie  he  spied  wi'  his  e'e ; 
And  there  he  saw  a  ladye  bright 

Come  riding  down  by  the  Eildon  Tree. 

Her  skirt  was  o'  the  grass-green  silk, 

Her  mantle  o'  the  velvet  fyne ; 
At  ilka  tett  o'  her  horse's  mane, 

Hung  fifty  siller  bells  and  nine. 

True  Thomas  he  pu'd  aff  his  cap, 
And  louted  low  down  on  his  knee: 

'  Hail  to  thee,   Mary,  Queen  of  Heaven ! 
For  thy  peer  on  earth  could  never  be.' 

'  O  no,  O  no,  Thomas,'  she  said, 
'  That  name  does  not  belang  to  me ; 

I'm  but  the  Queen  o'  fair  Elfland, 
That  am  hither  come  to  visit  thee. 

'Harp  and  carp,  Thomas,'  she  said; 

'  Harp  and  carp  along  wi'  me ; 
And  if  ye  dare  to  kiss  my  lips, 

Sure  of  your  bodie  I  will  be.' 

ferlie]  marvel.  tett]  tassel.  harp  and  carp]  play  and 

recite  (as  a  minstrel). 


ANONYMOUS 

'Betide  me  weal,  betide  me  woe, 
That  weird  shall  never  daunten  me.' 

Syne  he  has  kiss'd  her  rosy  lips, 
All  underneath  the  Eildon  Tree. 

'Now  ye  maun  go  wi'  me,'  she  said, 
'  True  Thomas,   ye  maun  go  wi'  me ; 

And  ye  maun  serve  me  seven  years, 

Thro'  weal  or  woe  as  may  chance  to  be.5 

She 's  mounted  on  her  milk-white  steed, 
She 's  ta'en  true  Thomas  up  behind ; 

And  aye,   whene'er  her  bridle  rang, 
The  steed  gaed  swifter  than  the  wind. 

O  they  rade  on,  and  farther  on, 

The  steed  gaed  swifter  than  the  wind; 

Until  they  reach'd  a  desert  wide, 
And  living  land  was  left  behind. 

'  Light  down,  light  down  now,  true  Thomas. 

And  lean  your  head  upon  my  knee ; 
Abide  ye  there  a  little  space, 

And  I  will  show  you  ferlies  three. 

'  O  see  ye  not  yon  narrow  road, 

So  thick  beset  wi'  thorns  and  briers? 

That  is  the  Path  of  Righteousness, 
Though  after  it  but  few  inquires. 

'  And  see  ye  not  yon  braid,  braid  road, 

That  lies  across  the  lily  leven : 
That  is  the  Path  of  Wickedness. 

Though  some  call  it  the  Road  to  Heaven. 
leven]  lawn. 

401 


ANONYMOUS 

'  And  see  ye  not  yon  bonny  road 
That  winds  about  the  fernie  brae? 

That  is  the  Road  to  fair  Elfland, 

Where  thou  and  I  this  night  maun  gae. 

'But,  Thomas,  ye  sail  haud  your  tongue, 

Whatever  ye  may  hear  or  see ; 
For  speak  ye  word  in  Elflyn-land, 

Ye'll  ne'er  win  back  to  your  ain  countrie.' 

0  they  rade  on,  and  farther  on, 

And  they  waded  rivers  abune  the  knee ; 
And  they  saw  neither  sun  nor  moon, 
But  they  heard  the  roaring  of  the  sea. 

It  was  mirk,  mirk  night,  there  was  nae  starlight. 

They  waded  thro'  red  blude  to  the  knee; 
For  a'  the  blude  that 's  shed  on  the  earth 

Rins  through  the  springs  o'  that  countrie. 

Syne  they  came  to  a  garden  green, 
And  she  pu'd  an  apple  frae  a  tree: 

4  Take  this  for  thy  wages,   true  Thomas ; 

It  will  give  thee  the  tongue  that  can  never  lee.' 

'My  tongue  is  my  ain,'  true  Thomas  he  said; 
'  A  gudely  gift  ye  wad  gie  to  me  ! 

1  neither  dought  to  buy  or  sell 

At  fair  or  tryst  where  I  might  be. 

'  I  dought  neither  speak  to  prince  or  peer, 
Nor  ask  of  grace  from  fair  ladye ! ' — 

'Now  haud  thy  peace,  Thomas,'  she  said, 
'  For  as  I  say,  so  must  it  be.' 

donght]  could. 


ANONYMOUS 

He  has  gotten  a  coat  of  the  even  cloth, 
And  a  pair  o'  shoon  of  the  velvet  green 

And  till  seven  years  were  gane  and  past, 
True  Thomas  on  earth  was  never  seen. 


$68.  Sir  Tatrick  Spens 

I.    The  Sailing 

"""THE  king  sits  in  Dunfermline  town 
•*•       Drinking  the  blude-red  wine; 
'O  whare  will  I  get  a  skeely  skipper 
To  sail  this  new  ship  o'  mine  ? ' 

O  up  and  spak  an  eldern  knight, 
Sat  at  the  king's  right  knee ; 

*  Sir  Patrick  Spens  is  the  best  sailor 
That  ever  sail'd  the  sea.' 

Our  king  has  written  a  braid  letter, 
And  seal'd  it  with  his  hand, 

And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 
Was  walking  on  the  strand. 

'To  Noroway,  to  Noroway, 
To  Noroway  o'er  the  faem ; 

The  king's  daughter  o'  Noroway, 
'Tis  thou  must  bring  her  hame.' 

The  first  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read 
So  loud,  loud  laugh'd  he; 

The  neist  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read 
The  tear  blinded  his  e'e. 

j68.  skeely]  skilful. 


ANONYMOUS 

'O  wha  is  this  has  done  this  deed 

And  tauld  the  king  o'  me, 
To  send  us  out,  at  this  time  o'  year, 

To  sail  upon  the  sea? 

'  Be  it  wind,  be  it  weet,  be  it  hail,  be  it  sleet, 

Our  ship  must  sail  the  faem ; 
The  king's  daughter  o'  Noroway, 

'Tis  we  must  fetch  her  hame.' 

They  hoysed  their  sails  on  Monenday  morn 

Wi'  a'  the  speed  they  may; 
They  hae  landed  in  Noroway 

Upon  a  Wodensday. 

II.    The  Return 
1  Mak  ready,  mak  ready,  my  merry  men  a' ! 

Our  gude  ship  sails  the  morn.' 
'  Now  ever  alack,  my  master  dear, 

I  fear  a  deadly  storm. 

'  I  saw  the  new  moon  late  yestreen 

Wi'  the  auld  moon  in  her  arm  ; 
And  if  we  gang  to  sea,  master, 

I  fear  we'll  come  to  harm.' 

They  hadna  sail'd  a  league,  a  league, 

A  league  but  barely  three, 
When  the  lift  grew  dark,  and  the  wind  blew  bud 

And  gurly  grew  the  sea. 

The  ankers  brak,  and  the  topmast  lap, 

It  was  sic  a  deadly  storm : 
And  the  waves  cam  owre  the  broken  ship 

Till  a'  her  sides  were  torn. 
lift]  sky.          lap]  sprang. 


ANONYMOUS 

'Go  fetch  a  web  o'  the  silken  claith, 

Another  o'  the  twine, 
And  wap  them  into  our  ship's  side, 

And  let  nae  the  sea  come  in.' 

They  fetch'd  a  web  o'  the  silken  claith. 

Another  o'  the  twine, 
And  they  wapp'd  them  round  that  gude  ship's  side. 

But  still  the  sea  came  in. 

O  laith,  laith  were  our  gude  Scots  lords 

To  wet  their  cork-heel'd  shoon ; 
But  lang  or  a*  the  play  was  play'd 

They  wat  their  hats  aboon. 

And  mony  was  the  feather  bed 

That  flatter'd  on  the  faem; 
And  mony  was  the  gude  lord's  son 

That  never  mair  cam  hame. 

O  lang,   lang  may  the  ladies  sit, 

Wi'  their  fans  into  their  hand, 
Before  they  see  Sir  Patrick  Spens 

Come  sailing  to  the  strand ! 

And  lang,   lang  may  the  maidens  sit 
Wi'  their  gowd  kames  in  their  hair, 

A-waiting  for  their  ain  dear  loves ! 
For  them  they'll  see  nae  mair. 

Half-owre,  half-owre  to  Aberdour, 

Tis  fifty  fathoms  deep; 
And  there  lies  gude  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 

Wi'  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feet! 

flatter'd]  tossed  afloat.          kames]  combs. 

405 


ANONYMOUS 


369.          The  Lass  of  Lochroyan 

^ f~\  WHA  will  shoe  my  bonny  foot? 

^-s     And  wha  will  glove  my  hand? 
And  wha  will  bind  my  middle  jimp 
Wi'  a  lang,  lang  linen  band  ? 

'  O  wha  will  kame  my  yellow  hair, 

With  a  haw  bayberry  kame  ? 
And  wha  will  be  my  babe's  father 

Till  Gregory  come  hame  ? ' 

'Thy  father,  he  will  shoe  thy  foot, 

Thy  brother  will  glove  thy  hand, 
Thy  mither  will  bind  thy  middle  jimp 

Wi'  a  lang,  lang  linen  band. 

'Thy  sister  will  kame  thy  yellow  hair, 

Wi'  a  haw  bayberry  kame ; 
The  Almighty  will  be  thy  babe's  father 

Till  Gregory  come  hame.' 

'And  wha  will  build  a  bonny  ship, 

And  set  it  on  the  sea? 
For  I  will  go  to  seek  my  love, 

My  ain  love  Gregory.' 

Up  then  spak  her  father  dear, 

A  wafu'  man  was  he ; 
'  And  I  will  build  a  bonny  ship, 

And  set  her  on  the  sea. 

jimp]  trim.          kame]  comb.          haw  bayberry]   Ta  corruption  foi 
'  braw  ivory ' :    or  bayberry  may  -  laurel-wood. 
406 


ANONYMOUS 

4  And  I  will  build  a  bonny  ship, 

And  set  her  on  the  sea, 
And  ye  sal  gae  and  seek  your  love, 

Your  ain  love  Gregory.' 

Then  he's  gart  build  a  bonny  ship, 

And  set  it  on  the  sea, 
Wi'  four-and-twenty  mariners, 

To  bear  her  company. 

O  he 's  gart  build  a  bonny  ship, 

To  sail  on  the  salt  sea ; 
The  mast  was  o'  the  beaten  gold, 

The  sails  o'  cramoisie. 

The  sides  were  o'  the  gude  stout  aik. 

The  deck  o'  mountain  pine, 
The  anchor  o'  the  silver  shene, 

The  ropes  o'  silken  twine. 

She  hadna  sail'd  but  twenty  leagues, 
But  twenty  leagues  and  three, 

When  she  met  wi'  a  rank  reiver, 
And  a'  his  companie. 

'Now  are  ye  Queen  of  Heaven  hie. 

Come  to  pardon  a'  our  sin? 
Or  are  ye  Mary  Magdalane, 

Was  born  at  Bethlam  ? ' 

'I'm  no  the  Queen  of  Heaven  hie, 

Come  to  pardon  ye  your  sin, 
Nor  am  I  Mary  Magdalane, 

Was  born  in  Bethlam. 
cramoisie]  crimson.        reiver]  robber. 

407 


ANONYMOUS 

'But  I'm  the  lass  of  Lochroyan, 

That's  sailing  on  the  sea 
To  see  if  I  can  find  my  love, 

My  ain  love  Gregory.' 

'O  see  na  ye  yon  bonny  bower? 

It 's  a'  covered  owre  wi'  tin ; 
When  thou  hast  sail'd  it  round  about. 

Lord  Gregory  is  within.' 

And  when  she  saw  the  stately  tower. 

Shining  both  clear  and  bright, 
Whilk  stood  aboon  the  jawing  wave, 

Built  on  a  rock  of  height, 

Says,   '  Row  the  boat,  my  mariners, 

And  bring  me  to  the  land, 
For  yonder  I  see  my  love's  castle, 

Close  by  the  salt  sea  strand.' 

She  sail'd  it  round,  and  sail'd  it  round, 
And  loud  and  loud  cried  she, 

'Now  break,  now  break  your  fairy  charms, 
And  set  my  true-love  free.' 

She 's  ta'en  her  young  son  in  her  arms, 

And  to  the  door  she 's  gane, 
And  long  she  knock'd,  and  sair  she  ca'd 

But  answer  got  she  nane. 

'  O  open,  open,  Gregory  ! 

O  open!    if  ye  be  within; 
For  here's  the  lass  of  Lochroyan, 

Come  far  fra  kith  and  kin. 


ANONYMOUS 

•  O  open  the  door,   Lord  Gregory  ! 

O  open  and  let  me  in ! 
The  wind  blows  loud  and  cauld,   Gregory, 

The  rain  drops  fra  my  chin. 

'The  shoe  is  frozen  to  my  foot, 

The  glove  unto  my  hand, 
The  wet  drops  fra  my  yellow  hair, 

Na  langer  dow  I  stand.' 

O  up  then  spak  his  ill  mither, 

— An  ill  death  may  she  die! 
'  Ye're  no  the  lass  of  Lochroyan, 

She  's  far  out-owre  the  sea. 

'Awa',  awa',   ye  ill  woman, 
Ye're  no  come  here  for  gude ; 

Ye're  but  some  witch  or  wil'  warlock, 
Or  mermaid  o'  the  flood.' 

*I  am  neither  witch  nor  wil'  warlock. 

Nor  mermaid  o'  the  sea, 
But  I  am  Annie  of  Lochroyan, 

O  open  the  door  to  me  ! ' 

'Gin  ye  be  Annie  of  Lochroyan. 

As  I  trow  thou  binna  she, 
Now  tell  me  of  some  love-tokens 

That  pass'd  'tween  thee  and  me,* 

'O  dinna  ye  mind,   love  Gregory, 

As  we  sat  at  the  wine, 
We  changed  the  rings  frae  our  fingers  ? 

And  I  can  shew  thee  thine. 


do\v]  can. 


ANONYMOUS 

'O  yours  was  gude,  and  gude  enough, 

But  ay  the  best  was  mine, 
For  yours  was  o'  the  gude  red  gowd. 

But  mine  o'  the  diamond  fine. 

'Yours  was  o'  the  gude  red  gowd, 

Mine  o'  the  diamond  fine ; 
Mine  was  o'  the  purest  troth, 

But  thine  was  false  within.' 

'If  ye  be  the  lass  of  Lochroyan, 

As  I  kenna  thou  be, 
Tell  me  some  mair  o'  the  love-tokens 

Pass'd  between  thee  and  me.' 

'  And  dinna  ye  mind,   love  Gregory  ! 

As  we  sat  on  the  hill, 
Thou  twin'd  me  o'  my  maidenheid. 

Right  sair  against  my  will  ? 

*  Now  open  the  door,   love  Gregory  ! 

Open  the  door  !    I  pray  ; 
For  thy  young  son  is  in  my  arms, 

And  will  be  dead  ere  day.' 

'  Ye  lie,  ye  lie,   ye  ill  woman, 

So  loud  I  hear  ye  lie ; 
For  Annie  of  the  Lochroyan 

Is  far  out-owre  the  sea.' 

Fair  Annie  turn'd  her  round  about : 

'Weel,  sine  that  it  be  sae, 
May  ne'er  woman  that  has  borne  a  son 

Hae  a  heart  sae  fu'  o'  wae  ! 


ANONYMOUS 

'  Tak  down,  tak  down  that  mast  o'  gowd, 

Set  up  a  mast  of  tree ; 
It  disna  become  a  forsaken  lady 

To  sail  sae  royallie.' 

When  the  cock  had  crawn,  and  the  day  did  dawn, 

And  the  sun  began  to  peep, 
Up  then  raise  Lord  Gregory, 

And  sair,   sair  did  he  weep. 

'  O  I  hae  dream'd  a  dream,  mither, 

I  wish  it  may  bring  good ! 
That  the  bonny  lass  of  Lochroyan 

At  my  bower  window  stood. 

'  O  I  hae  dream'd  a  dream,  mither, 

The  thought  o't  gars  me  greet ! 
That  fair  Annie  of  Lochroyan 

Lay  dead  at  my  bed-feet.' 

'  Gin  it  be  for  Annie  of  Lochroyan 

That  ye  mak  a*  this  mane, 
She  stood  last  night  at  your  bower-door, 

But  I  hae  sent  her  hame.' 

4  O  wae  betide  ye,  ill  woman, 

An  ill  death  may  ye  die ! 
That  wadna  open  the  door  yourselJ 

Nor  yet  wad  waken  me.' 

O  he's  gane  down  to  yon  shore-side, 

As  fast  as  he  could  dree, 
And  there  he  saw  fair  Annie's  bark 

A  rowing  owre  the  sea. 


ANONYMOUS 

'O  Annie,  Annie,'  loud  he  cried, 
'  O  Annie,  O  Annie,  bide  !  ' 

But  ay  the  mair  he  cried  'Annie/ 
The  braider  grew  the  tide. 

'  O  Annie,  Annie,  dear  Annie, 

Dear  Annie,  speak  to  me !  ' 
But  ay  the  louder  he  gan  call, 

The  louder  roar'd  the  sea. 

The  wind  blew  loud,  the  waves  rose  hie 
And  dash'd  the  boat  on  shore  ; 

Fair  Annie's  corpse  was  in  the  faem, 
The  babe  rose  never  more. 

Lord  Gregory  tore  his  gowden  locks 

And  made  a  wafu'  moan  ; 
Fair  Annie's  corpse  lay  at  his  feet, 

His  bonny  son  was  gone. 

'  O  cherry,   cherry  was  her  cheek, 

And  gowden  was  her  hair, 
And  coral,   coral  was  her  lips, 

Nane  might  with  her  compare.' 

Then  first  he  kiss'd  her  pale,  pale  cheek, 
And  syne  he  kiss'd  her  chin, 

And  syne  he  kiss'd  her  wane,  wane  lips, 
There  was  na  breath  within. 

'  O  wae  betide  my  ill  mither, 

An  ill  death  may  she  die ! 
She  turn'd  my  true-love  frae  my  door, 

Who  cam  so  far  to  me. 


ANONYMOUS 

'O  wae  betide  my  ill  mither, 

An  ill  death  may  she  die ! 
She  has  no  been  the  deid  o'  ane, 

But  she's  been  the  deid  of  three.' 

Then  he 's   ta'en  out  a  little  dart, 

Hung  low  down  by  his  gore, 
He  thrust  it  through  and  through  his  heart, 

And  words  spak  never  more. 


370.     The  'D&ivie  Houms  of  Tarroiv 

T   ATE  at  een,   drinkin'  the  wine. 
-^      And  ere  they  paid  the   lawin', 
They  set  a  combat  them  between, 
To  fight  it  in  the  dawin'. 

*  O  stay  at  hame,   my  noble  lord  ! 

O  stay  at  hame,   my  marrow ! 
My  cruel  brother  will  you  betray, 

On  the  dowie  houms  o'  Yarrow.' 

'  O   fare  ye  weel,   my  lady  gay ! 

O  fare  ye  weel,   my  Sarah  ! 
For  I  maun  gae,  tho'  I  ne'er  return 

Frae  the  dowie  banks  o'  Yarrow.' 

She  kiss'd  his  cheek,   she  kamed  his  hair. 

As  she  had  done  before,   O  ; 
She  belted  on  his  noble  brand, 

An'  he 's  awa  to  Yarrow. 

;6p.  gore]  skirt,  waist.  j-jo.  lawin']  reckoning.  marrow] 

(married),  husband  or  wife,     dowie]  doleful,     houms]  water-meads. 


ANONYMOUS 

O  he 's  gane  up  yon  high,   high  hill — 

I  wat  he  gaed  wi'  sorrow — 
An'  in  a  den  spied  nine  arm'd  men, 

I'  the  dowie  houms  o'  Yarrow. 

'O  are  ye  come  to  drink  the  wine, 

As  ye  hae  doon  before,  O  ? 
Or  are  ye  come  to  wield  the  brand, 

On  the  dowie  banks  o'  Yarrow?' 

*  I  am  no  come  to  drink  the  wine, 

As  I  hae  don  before,   O, 
But  I  am  come  to  wield  the  brand, 
On  the  dowie  houms  o'  Yarrow.' 

Four  he  hurt,  an'  five  he  slew, 
On  the  dowie  houms  o'  Yarrow, 

Till  that  stubborn  knight  came  him  behind, 
An'  ran  his  body  thorrow. 

*Gae  hame,  gae  hame,  good  brother  John, 

An'  tell  your  sister  Sarah 
To  come  an'  lift  her  noble  lord. 

Who's  sleepin'  sound  on  Yarrow.' 

*  Yestreen  I  dream'd  a  dolefu'  dream ; 

I  ken'd  there  wad  be  sorrow ; 
I  dream'd  I  pu'd  the  heather  green, 
On  the  dowie  banks  o'  Yarrow.' 

She  gaed  up  yon  high,   high  hill — 

I  wat  she  gaed  wi'  sorrow — 
An'  in  a  den  spied  nine  dead  men, 

On  the  dowie  houms  o'  Yarrow. 


ANONYMOUS 

She  kiss'd  his  cheek,   she  kamed  his  hair, 

As  oft  she  did  before,   O  ; 
She  drank  the  red  blood  frae  him  ran, 

On  the  dowie  houms  o'  Yarrow. 

*  O  haud  your  tongue,  my  douchter  dear, 
For  what  needs  a'  this  sorrow  ? 

I'll  wed  you  on  a  better  lord 
Than  him  you  lost  on  Yarrow.' 

'O  haud  your  tongue,  my  father  dear, 

An'  dinna  grieve  your  Sarah; 
A  better  lord  was  never  born 

Than  him  I  lost  on  Yarrow. 

'Tak  hame  your  ousen,  tak  hame  your  kye, 

For  they  hae  bred  our  sorrow  ; 
I  wiss  that  they  had  a'  gane  mad 

Whan  they  cam  first  to  Yarrow.' 

$71.  Clerk  Saunders 

f^LERK  SAUNDERS  and   may  Margaret 
^-^      Walk'd  owre  yon  garden  green ; 
And  deep  and  heavy  was  the  love 
That  fell  thir  twa  between. 

'A  bed,  a  bed,'  Clerk  Saunders  said, 

'  A  bed  for  you  and  me  ! ' 
'  Fye  na,  fye  na,'  said  may  Margaret, 

'  Till  anes  we  married  be  ! ' 

'Then  I'll  take  the  sword  frae  my  scabbard 

And  slowly  lift  the  pin; 
And  you  may  swear,  and  save  your  aith, 

Ye  ne'er  let  Clerk  Saunders  in. 

4>5 


ANONYMOUS 

'Take  you  a  napkin  in  your  hand, 
And  tie  up  baith  your  bonnie  e'en, 

And  you  may  swear,  and  save  your  aith, 
Ye  saw  me  na  since  late  yestreen.' 

It  was  about  the  midnight  hour, 

When  they  asleep  were  laid, 
When  in  and  came  her  seven  brothers, 

Wi'  torches  burning  red: 

When  in  and  came  her  seven  brothers, 

Wi'  torches  burning  bright : 
They  said,   'We  hae  but  one  sister, 

And  behold  her  lying  with  a  knight !  ' 

Then  out  and  spake  the  first  o'  them, 
'  I  bear  the  sword  shall  gar  him  die.' 

And  out  and  spake  the  second  o'  them, 
'His  father  has  nae  mair  but  he.' 

And  out  and  spake  the  third  o'  them, 
'  I  wot  that  they  are  lovers  dear.' 

And  out  and  spake  the  fourth  o'  them, 
'  They  hae  been  in  love  this  mony  a  year. 

Then  out  and  spake  the  fifth  o'  them, 
'It  were  great  sin  true  love  to  twain.' 

And  out  and  spake  the  sixth  o'  them, 
'  It  were  shame  to  slay  a  sleeping  man.' 

Then  up  and  gat  the  seventh  o'  them, 
And  never  a  word  spake  he  ; 

But  he  has  striped  his  bright  brown  brand 
Out  through  Clerk  Saunders'  fair  bodye. 
striped]  thrust. 

416 


ANONYMOUS 

Clerk  Saunders  he  started,  and  Margaret  she  turn'd 

Into  his  arms  as  asleep  she  lay ; 
And  sad  and  silent  was  the  night 

That  was  atween  thir  twae. 

And  they  lay  still  and  sleepit  sound 

Until  the  day  began  to  daw' ; 
And  kindly  she  to  him  did  say, 

*  It  is  time,  true  love,   you  were  awaV 

But  he  lay  still,  and  sleepit  sound, 

Albeit  the  sun  began  to  sheen  ; 
She  look'd  atween  her  and  the  wa', 

And  dull  and  drowsie  were  his  e'en. 

Then  in  and  came  her  father  dear ; 

Said,    '  Let  a'  your  mourning  be ; 
I'll  carry  the  dead  corse  to  the  clay, 

And  I'll  come  back  and  comfort  thee.' 

'  Comfort  weel  your  seven  »ons. 

For  comforted  I  will  never  be : 
I   ween  'twas  neither  knave  nor  loon 

Was  in  the  bower  last  night  wi'  me.' 

The  clinking  bell  gaed  through  the  town, 
To  carry  the  dead  corse  to  the  clay; 

And  Clerk  Saunders  stood  at  may  Margaret's  window, 
I  wot,  an  hour  before  the  day. 

'  Are  ye  sleeping,   Marg'ret  ? '  he  says, 

'  Or  are  ye  waking  presentlie  ? 
Give  me  my  faith  and  troth  again, 

I  wot,   true  love,   I  gied  to  thee.' 


ANONYMOUS 

'Your  faith  and  troth  ye  sail  never  get, 
Nor  our  true  love  sail  never  twin, 

Until  ye  come  within  my  bower, 
And  kiss  me  cheik  and  chin.' 

'My  mouth  it  is  full  cold,   Marg'ret; 

It  has  the  smell,   now,  of  the  ground; 
And  if  I  kiss  thy  comely  mouth, 

Thy  days  of  life  will  not  be  lang. 

'  O  cocks  are  crowing  a  merry  midnight ; 

I  wot  the  wild  fowls  are  boding  day; 
Give  me  my  faith  and  troth  again, 

And  let  me  fare  me  on  my  way.' 

'Thy  faith  and  troth  thou  sallna  get, 
And  our  true  love  sail  never  twin, 

Until  ye  tell  what  comes  o'  women, 
I  wot,  who  die  in  strong  travelling  ? ' 

'Their  beds  are  made  in  the  heavens  high, 
Down  at  the  foot  of  our  good  Lord's  knee, 

Weel  set  about  wi'  gillyflowers; 
I  wot,  sweet  company  for  to  see. 

'O  cocks  are  crowing  a  merry  midnight; 

I  wot  the  wild  fowls  are  boding  day ; 
The  psalms  of  heaven  will  soon  be  sung, 

And  I,  ere  now,  will  be  miss'd  away.' 

Then  she  has  taken  a  crystal   wand, 

And  she  has  stroken  her  troth  thereon ; 

She  has  given  it  him  out  at  the  shot-window, 

Wi'  mony  a  sad  sigh  and  heavy  groan, 
twin]  break  in  two. 

4.8 


ANONYMOUS 

'  I  thank  ye,   Marg'ret ;    I  thank  ye,   Marg'ret 

And  ay  I  thank  ye  heartilie; 
Gin  ever  the  dead  come  for  the  quick, 

Be  sure,   Marg'ret,   I'll  come  for  thee.' 

It's  hosen  and  shoon,   and  gown  alone, 
She  climb'd  the  wall,  and  follow'd  him, 

Until  she  came  to  the  green  forest, 
And  there  she  lost  the  sight  o'  him. 

*  Is  there  ony  room  at  your  head,   Saunders  ? 

Is  there  ony  room  at  your  feet  ? 
Or  ony  room  at  your  side,   Saunders, 

Where  fain,  fain,   I  wad  sleep?' 

'There's  nae  room  at  my  head,   Marg'ret, 

There's  nae  room  at  my  feet; 
My  bed  it  is  fu'  lowly  now, 

Amang  the  hungry  worms  I  sleep. 

'Cauld  mould  is  my  covering  now, 

But  and  my  winding-sheet; 
The  dew  it  falls  nae  sooner  down 

Than  my  resting-place  is  weet. 

'  But  plait  a  wand  o'  bonny  birk, 

And  lay  it  on  my  breast; 
And  shed  a  tear  upon  my  grave, 

And  wish  my  saul  gude  rest.' 

Then  up  and  crew  the  red,   red  cock, 

And  up  and  crew  the  gray : 
*'Tis  time,  'tis  time,  my  dear  Marg'ret, 

That  you  were  going  away. 

419 


ANONYMOUS 

'And  fair  Marg'ret,  and  rare  Marg'ret, 

And  Marg'ret  o*  veritie, 
Gin  e'er  ye  love  another  man, 

Ne'er  love  him  as  ye  did  me.' 


$72.  Fair  Annie 

"THE  reivers  they  stole  Fair  Annie, 
*       As  she  walk'd  by  the  sea  ; 
But  a  noble  knight  was  her  ransom  soon. 
Wi*  gowd  and  white  monie. 

She  bided  in  strangers'  land  wi'  him, 
And  none  knew  whence  she  cam ; 

She  lived  in  the  castle  wi'  her  love, 
But  never  told  her  name. 

'  It 's  narrow,  narrow,  mak  your  bed, 
And  learn  to  lie  your  lane ; 

For  I'm  gaun  owre  the  sea,   Fair  Annie, 
A  braw  Bride  to  bring  hame. 

Wi'  her  I  will  get  gowd  and  gear, 
Wi'  you  I  ne'er  gat  nane. 

1  But  wha  will  bake  my  bridal  bread, 

Or  brew  my  bridal  ale  ? 
And  wha  will  welcome  my  bright  Bride, 

That  I  bring  owre  the  dale  ? ' 

'  It 's  I  will  bake  your  bridal  bread, 

And  brew  your  bridal  ale ; 
And  I  will  welcome  your  bright  Bride, 

That  you  bring  owre  the  dale.' 


ANONYMOUS 

'  But  she  that  welcomes  my  blight  Bride 

Maun  gang  like  maiden  fair ; 
She  maun  lace  on  her  robe  sae  jimp, 

And  comely  braid  her  hair. 

*  Bind  up,  bind  up  your  yellow  hair, 

And  tie  it  on  your  neck ; 
And  see  you  look  as  maiden-like 

As  the  day  that  first  we  met.' 

'  O  how  can  I  gang  maiden-like, 

When  maiden  I  am  nane  ? 
Have  I  not  borne  six  sons  to  thee, 

And  am  wi*  child  again  ? ' 

'  I'll  put  cooks  into  my  kitchen, 

And  stewards  in  my  hall, 
And  I'll  have  bakers  for  my  bread, 

And  brewers  for  my  ale ; 
But  you're  to  welcome  my  bright  Bride, 

That  I  bring  owre  the  dale.' 

Three  months  and  a  day  were  gane  and  past, 

Fair  Annie  she  gat  word 
That  her  love's  ship  was  come  at  last, 

Wi'  his  bright  young  Bride  aboard. 

She 's  ta'en  her  young  son  in  her  arms, 

Anither  in  her  hand; 
And  she  's  gane  up  to  the  highest  tower, 

Looks  over  sea  and  land. 

jimp]  trim. 

431 


ANONYMOUS 

'Come  doun,  come  doun,  my  mother  dear, 

Come  aff  the  castle  wa' ! 
I  fear  if  langer  ye  stand  there, 

Ye'll  let  yoursell  doun  fa'.' 

She's  ta'en  a  cake  o'  the  best  bread. 

A  stoup  o'  the  best  wine, 
And  a'  the  keys  upon  her  arm, 

And  to  the  yett  is  gane. 

'  O  ye're  welcome  hame,   my  ain  gude  lord. 

To  your  castles  and  your  towers ; 
Ye're  welcome  hame,   my  ain  gude  lord, 

To  your  ha's,  but  and  your  bowers. 
And  welcome  to  your  hame,   fair  lady ! 

For  a'  that's  here  is  yours.' 

'  O  whatna  lady  's  that,   my  lord, 

That  welcomes  you  and  me  ? 
Gin  I  be  lang  about  this  place, 

Her  friend  I  mean  to  be.' 

Fair  Annie  served  the  lang  tables 
Wi'  the  white  bread  and  the  wine ; 

But  ay  she  drank  the  wan  water 
To  keep  her  colour  fine. 

And  she  gaed  by  the  first  table, 

And  smiled  upon  them  a' ; 
But  ere  she  reach'd  the  second  table. 

The  tears  began  to  fa'. 


yett]  gate. 
422 


ANONYMOUS 

She  took  a  napkin  lang  and  white, 

And  hung  it  on  a  pin; 
It  was  to  wipe  away  the  tears, 

As  she  gaed  out  and  in. 

When  bells  were  rung  and  mass  was  sung, 

And  a'  men  bound  for  bed, 
The  bridegroom  and  the  bonny  Bride 

In  ae  chamber  were  laid. 

Fair  Annie 's  ta'en  a  harp  in  her  hand, 

To  harp  thir  twa  asleep; 
But  ay,  as  she  harpit  and  she  sang, 

Fu'  sairly  did  she  weep. 

'  O  gin  my  sons  were  seven  rats, 

Rinnin'  on  the  castle  wa', 
And  I  mysell  a  great  grey  cat, 

I  soon  wad  worry  them  a' ! 

*  O  gin  my  sons  were  seven  hares, 

Rinnin'  owre  yon  lily  lea, 
And  I   mysell  a  good  greyhound, 

Soon  worried  they  a*  should  be !  ' 

Then  out  and  spak  the  bonny  young  Bride, 

In  bride-bed  where  she  lay: 
'That's  like  my  sister  Annie,'  she  says; 

'  Wha  is  it  doth  sing  and  play  ? 

Til  put  on  my  gown,'  said  the  new-come  Bride, 

'And  my  shoes  upon  my  feet; 
I  will  see  wha  doth  sae  sadly  sing, 

And  what  is  it  gars  her  greet. 


ANONYMOUS 

'What  ails  you,  what  ails  you,  my  housekeeper, 

That  ye  mak  sic  a  mane  ? 
Has  ony  wine-barrel  cast  its  girds, 

Or  is  a'  your  white  bread  gane?' 

'It  isna  because  my  wine  is  spilt, 
Or  that  my  white  bread's  gane; 

But  because  I've  lost  my  true  love's  love, 
And  he  's  wed  to  anither  ane.' 

'  Noo  tell  me  wha  was  your  father  ? '  she  says, 
'  Noo  tell  me  wha  was  your  mother  ? 

And  had  ye  ony  sister  ? '  she  says, 
'And  had  ye  ever  a  brother?' 

'The  Earl  of  Wemyss  was  my  father, 
The  Countess  of  Wemyss  my  mother, 

Young  Elinor  she  was  my  sister  dear, 
And  Lord  John  he  was  my  brother.' 

4  If  the  Earl  of  Wemyss  was  your  father, 

I  wot  sae  was  he  mine  ; 
And  it 's  O  my  sister  Annie  ! 

Your  love  ye  sallna  tyne. 

'Tak  your  husband,  my  sister  dear; 

You  ne'er  were  wrang'd  for  me, 
Beyond  a  kiss  o'  his  merry  mouth 

As  we  cam  owre  the  sea. 

'  Seven  ships,  loaded  weel, 

Cam  owre  the  sea  wi'  me ; 
Ane  o'  them  will  tak  me  hame, 

And  six  I'll  gie  to  thee.' 
tyne]  lose. 


ANONYMOUS 


373.  Edward,  Edward 

VVTHY  does  your  brand  sae  drop  wi'  blude. 

W       Edward,   Edward? 
Why  does  your  brand  sae  drop  wi'  blude, 

And  why  sae  sad  gang  ye,  O  ? ' 
'  O  I  hae  kill'd  my  hawk  sae  gude, 

Mither,  mither; 
O   I  hae  kill'd  my  hawk  sae  gude, 

And  I  had  nae  mair  but  he,   O.' 

'Your  hawk's  blude  was  never  sae  red, 

Edward,    Edward ; 
Your  hawk's  blude  was  never  sae  red, 

My  dear  son,   I  tell  thee,  O.' 
'O  I  hae  kill'd  my  red-roan  steed, 

Mither,  mither; 
O   I  hae  kill'd  my  red-roan  steed. 

That  erst  was  sae  fair  and  free,   O.' 

'  Your  steed  was  auld,  and  ye  hae  got  mair, 

Edward,   Edward ; 
Your  steed  was  auld,  and  ye  hae  got  mair; 

Some  other  dule  ye  dree,  O.' 
4  O  I  hae  kill'd  my  father  dear, 

Mither,  mither ; 

O   I  hae  kill'd  my  father  dear, 
Alas,  and  wae  is  me,  O ! ' 

dnle  ye  dree]  grief  yon  suffer. 

P  j  425 


ANONYMOUS 

'  And  whatten  penance  will  ye  dree  for  that, 

Edward,   Edward  ? 
Whatten  penance  will  ye  dree  for  that? 

My  dear  son,  now  tell  me,   O.' 
'I'll  set  my  feet  in  yonder  boat, 

Mither,  mither; 
I'll  set  my  feet  in  yonder  boat, 

And  I'll  fare  over  the  sea,   O.' 


'  And  what  will  ye  do  wi'  your  tow'rs  and  your  ha', 

Edward,   Edward  ? 
And  what  will  ye  do  wi'  your  tow'rs  and  your  ha', 

That  were  sae  fair  to  see,  O  ? ' 
Til  let  them  stand  till  they  doun  fa', 

Mither,  mither ; 
I'll  let  them  stand  till  they  doun  fa', 

For  here  never  mair  maun  I  be,   O.' 


'  And  what  will  ye  leave  to  your  bairns  and  your  wife, 

Edward,   Edward  ? 
And  what  will  ye  leave  to  your  bairns  and  your  wife, 

When  ye  gang  owre  the  sea,  O?' 
*  The  warld's  room :    let  them  beg  through  life, 

Mither,   mither ; 

The  warld's  room :    let  them  beg  through  life ; 
For  them  never  mair  will  I  see,  O.' 

'And  what  will  ye  leave  to  your  ain  mither  dear, 

Edward,   Edward? 

And  what  will  ye  leave  to  your  ain  mither  dear, 
My  dear  son,  now  tell  me,  O  ? ' 


ANONYMOUS 

'The  curse  of  hell  frae  me  sail  ye  bear, 

Mither,  mither ; 

The  curse  of  hell  frae  me  sail  ye  bear : 
Sic  counsels  ye  gave  to  me,  O !  ' 


Edom  o'  Gordon 

T  T  fell  about  the  Martinmas, 
*•      When  the  wind  blew  shrill  and  cauld. 
Said  Edom  o'  Gordon  to  his  men, 
'We  maun  draw  to  a  hauld. 

'And  what  a  hauld  sail  we  draw  to, 

My  merry  men  and  me  ? 
We  will  gae  to  the  house  o'  the  Rode?, 

To  see  that  fair  ladye.' 

The  lady  stood  on  her  castle  wa', 

Beheld  baith  dale  and  down  ; 
There  she  was  ware  of  a  host  of  men 

Cam  riding  towards  the  town. 

'  O  see  ye  not,  my  merry  men  a'. 

0  see  ye  not  what  I  see  ? 
Methinks  I  see  a  host  of  men  ; 

1  marvel  wha  they  be.' 

She  ween'd  it  had  been  her  lovely  lord. 

As  he  cam  riding  hame  ; 
It  was  the  traitor,   Edom  o'  Gordon, 

Wha  reck'd  nae  sin  nor  shame. 


town]  stead. 


ANONYMOUS 

She  had  nae  sooner  buskit  hersell, 

And  putten  on  her  gown, 
But  Edom  o'  Gordon  an'  his  men 

Were  round  about  the  town. 

They  had  nae  sooner  supper  set, 

Nae  sooner  said  the  grace, 
But  Edom  o'  Gordon  an*  his  men 

Were  lighted  about  the  place. 

The  lady  ran  up  to  her  tower-head, 

Sae  fast  as  she  could  hie, 
To  see  if  by  her  fair  speeches 

She  could  wi'  him  aj»ree. 

'Come  doun  to  me,  ye  lady  gay, 
Come  doun,  come  doun  to  me ; 

This  night  sail  ye  lig  within  mine  arms, 
To-morrow  my  bride  sail  be.' 

'  I  winna  come  down,  ye  fals  Gordon, 
I  winna  come  down  to  thee ; 

I  winna  forsake  my  ain  dear  lord, 
That  is  sae  far  frae  me.' 

'  Gie  owre  your  house,   ye  lady  fair, 
Gie  owre  your  house  to  me ; 

Or  I  sail  brenn  yoursel  therein, 
But  and  your  babies  three.' 

*  I  winna  gie  owre,   ye  fals  Gordon, 

To  nae  sic  traitor  as  yee ; 
And  if  ye  brenn  my  ain  dear  babes. 

My  lord  sail  male  ye  dree. 


buskit]  attired. 

428 


ANONYMOUS 

'Now  reach  my  pistol,  Glaud,  my  man, 
And  charge  ye  weel  my  gun; 

For,  but  an  I  pierce  that  bluidy  butcher, 
My  babes,  we  been  undone ! ' 

She  stood  upon  her  castle  wa', 

And  let  twa  bullets  flee: 
She  miss'd  that  bluidy  butcher's  heart, 

And  only  razed  his  knee. 

'  Set  fire  to  the  house !  '  quo'  fals  Gordon, 

All  wud  wi'  dule  and  ire : 
*Fals  lady,  ye  sail  rue  this  deid 

As  ye  brenn  in  the  fire  1 ' 

Wae  worth,  wae  worth  ye,  Jock,  my  man 

I  paid  ye  weel  your  fee ; 
Why  pu'  ye  out  the  grund-wa'  stane, 
Lets  in  the  reek  to  me  ? 

'And  e'en  wae  worth  ye,  Jock,  my  man  ! 

I  paid  ye  weel  your  hire ; 
Why  pu'  ye  out  the  grund-wa'  stane, 

To  me  lets  in  the  fire?' 

'Ye  paid  me  weel  my  hire,   ladye, 

Ye  paid  me  weel  my  fee : 
But  now  I'm  Edom  o'  Gordon's  man — 

Maun  either  do  or  die.' 

O  then  bespake  her  little  son, 

Sat  on  the  nurse's  knee: 
Says,   'Mither  dear,  gie  owre  this  house, 

For  the  reek  it  smithers  me.' 

wud]  mad.  grund-wa'j  ground-walL 


ANONYMOUS 

'I  wad  gie  a'  my  gowd,  my  bairn, 

Sae  wad  I  a*  my  fee, 
For  ae  blast  o'  the  western  wind, 

To  blaw  the  reek  frae  thee.' 

O  then  bespake  her  dochter  dear — 

She  was  baith  jimp  and  sma' : 
'  O  row  me  in  a  pair  o'  sheets, 

And  tow  me  owre  the  wa' ! ' 

They  row'd  her  in  a  pair  o'  sheets, 

And  tow'd  her  owre  the  wa'; 
But  on  the  point  o'  Gordon's  spear 

She  gat  a  deadly  fa*. 

0  bonnie,   bonnie  was  her  mouth, 
And  cherry  were  her  cheiks, 

And  clear,   clear  was  her  yellow  hair, 
Whereon  the  red  blood  dreips. 

Then  wi'  his  spear  he  turn'd  her  owre ; 

0  gin  her  face  was  wane ! 

He  said,   '  Ye  are  the  first  that  e'er 

1  wish'd  alive  again.' 

He  turn'd  her  owre  and  owre  again ; 

O  gin  her  skin  was  white ! 
'  I  might  hae  spared  that  bonnie  face 

To  hae  been  some  man's  delight. 

'  Busk  and  boun,   my  merry  men  a', 
For  ill  dooms  I  do  guess ; 

1  canna  look  in  that  bonnie  face 
As  it  lies  on  the  grass.' 

jimp]  slender,  trim.  row]  wrap.  Busk  and  boon1  trim 

up  and  prepare  to  go. 
430 


ANONYMOUS 

'Wha  looks  to  freits,  my  master  dear, 
It 's  freits  will  follow  them ; 

Let  it  ne'er  be  said  that  Edom  o'  Gordon 
Was  daunted  by  a  dame.' 

But  when  the  lady  saw  the  fire 
Come  flaming  owre  her  head, 

She  wept,   and  kiss'd  her  children  twain, 
Says,   'Bairns,   we  been  but  dead.' 

The  Gordon  then  his  bugle  blew, 

And  said,   '  Awa',  awa' ! 
This  house  o'  the  Rodes  is  a*  in  a  flame; 

I  hauld  it  time  to  ga'.' 

And  this  way  lookit  her  ain  dear  lord, 

As  he  cam  owre  the  lea ; 
He  saw  his  castle  a'  in  a  lowe, 

As  far  as  he  could  see. 

Then  sair,  O  sair,   his  mind  misgave, 

And  all  his  heart  was  wae : 
'  Put  on,  put  on,  my  wighty  men, 

Sae  fast  as  ye  can  gae. 

'Put  on,  put  on,   my  wighty  men, 

Sae  fast  as  ye  can  drie ! 
For  he  that's  hindmost  o'  the  thrang 

Sail  ne'er  get  good  o'  me.' 

Then  some  they  rade,  and  some  they  ran, 

Out-owre  the  grass  and  bent ; 
But  ere  the  foremost  could  win  up, 
Baith  lady  and  babes  were  brent, 
freits]  ill  omens.  lowe]  flame.  wighty]  nimble. 

43' 


ANONYMOUS 

And  after  the  Gordon  he  is  gane, 

Sae  fast  as  he  might  drie; 
And  soon  i'  the  Gordon's  foul  heart's  blude 

He's  wroken  his  dear  ladye. 


j".  The  Queen's  Marie 

MARIE  HAMILTON'S  to  the  kirk  gane, 
Wi'  ribbons  in  her  hair; 
The  King  thought  mair  o'  Marie  Hamilton 
Than  ony  that  were  there. 

Marie  Hamilton  *s  to  the  kirk  gane 

Wi'  ribbons  on  her  breast  ; 
The  King  thought  mair  o*  Marie  Hamilton 

Than  he  listen'd  to  the  priest. 

Marie  Hamilton  s  to  the  kirk  gane, 

Wi'  gloves  apon  her  hands; 
The  King  thought  mair  o'  Marie  Hamilton 

Than  the  Queen  and  a*  her  lands. 

She  hadna  been  about  the  King's  court 

A  month,  but  barely  one, 
Till  she  was  beloved  by  a'  the  King's  court 

And  the  King  the  only  man. 

She  hadna  been  about  the  King's  court 

A  month,  but  barely  three, 
Till  frae  the  King's  court  Marie  Hamilton, 

Marie  Hamilton  durstna  be. 


roken]  avenged 
432 


ANONYMOUS 

The  King  is  to  the  Abbey  gaue. 

To  pu'  the  Abbey  tree, 
To  scale  the  babe  frae  Marie's  heart ; 

But  the  thing  it  wadna  be. 

O  she  has  row'd  it  in  her  apron, 

And  set  it  on  the  sea — 
'Gae  sink  ye  or  swim  ye,  bonny  oabe, 

Ye'se  get  nae  mair  o'  me.' 

Word  is  to  the  kitchen  gane, 

And  word  is  to  the  ha', 
And  word  is  to  the  noble  room 

Amang  the  ladies  a', 
That  Marie  Hamilton 's  brought  to  bed, 

And  the  bonny  babe's  miss'd  and  awa*. 

Scarcely  had  she  lain  down  again, 

And  scarcely  fa' en  asleep, 
When  up  and  started  our  gude  Queen 

Just  at  her  bed-feet; 
Saying — '  Marie  Hamilton,  where 's  your  babe  ? 

For  I  am  sure  I  heard  it  greet.' 

'O  no,   O  no,   my  noble  Queen! 

Think  no  sic  thing  to  be; 
Twas  but  a  stitch  into  my  side, 

And  sair  it  troubles  me !  ' 

4  Get  up,  get  up,   Marie  Hamilton : 

Get  up  and  follow  me ; 
For  I  am  going  to  Edinburgh  town, 

A  rich  wedding  for  to  see.' 

row'd]  wrapped.  greet]  cry. 


ANONYMOUS 

O  slowly,  slowly  rase  she  up, 

And  slowly  put  she  on  ; 
And  slowly  rade  she  out  the  way 

Wi'  mony  a  weary  groan. 

The  Queen  was  clad  in  scarlet, 
Her  merry  maids  all  in  green; 

And  every  town  that  they  cam  to. 
They  took  Marie  for  the  Queen. 

'  Ride  hooly,  hooly,  gentlemen, 

Ride  hooly  now  wi'  me ! 
For  never,   I  am  sure,  a  wearier  burd 

Rade  in  your  companie.' — 

But  little  wist  Marie  Hamilton, 
When  she  rade  on  the  brown, 

That  she  was  gaen  to  Edinburgh  town. 
And  a'  to  be  put  down. 

'  Why  weep  ye  so,   ye  burgess  wives, 

Why  look  ye  so  on  me? 
O  I  am  going  to  Edinburgh  town, 

A  rich  wedding  to  see.' 

When  she  gaed  up  the  tolbooth  stairs, 
The  corks  frae  her  heels  did  flee ; 

And  lang  or  e'er  she  cam  down  again, 
She  was  condemn'd  to  die. 

When  she  cam  to  the  Netherbow  port, 

She  laugh'd  loud  laughters  three; 
But  when  she  came  to  the  gallows  foot 

The  tears  blinded  her  e'e. 
hooly]  gently. 
434 


ANONYMOUS 

'Yestreen  the  Queen  had  four  Maries, 
The  night  she'll  hae  but  three; 

There  was  Marie  Seaton,  and  Marie  Beaton, 
And  Marie  Carmichael,  and  me. 

'O  often  have  I  dress'd  my  Queen 

And  put  gowd  upon  her  hair; 
But  now  I've  gotten  for  my  reward 

The  gallows  to  be  my  share. 

'Often  have  I  dress'd  my  Queen 

And  often  made  her  bed; 
But  now  I've  gotten  for  my  reward 

The  gallows  tree  to  tread. 

4 1  charge  ye  all,   ye  mariners, 

When  ye  sail  owre  the  faem, 
Let  neither  my  father  nor  mother  get  wit 

But  that  I'm  coming  hame. 

'I  charge  ye  all,   ye  mariners, 

That  sail  upon  the  sea, 
That  neither  my  father  nor  mother  ger  wit 

The  dog's  death  I'm  to  die. 

'For  if  my  father  and  mother  got  wit, 

And  my  bold  brethren  three, 
O  mickle  wad  be  the  gude  red  blude 

This  day  wad  be  spilt  for  me ! 

'  O  little  did  my  mother  ken, 

The  day  she  cradled  me, 
The  lands  I  was  to  travel  in 

Or  the  death  I  was  to  die  !  ' 


r 


ANONYMOUS 

$76.  Binnorie 

''HERE  were  twa  sisters  sat  in  a  bour  ; 

Binnorie,  0  Binnorie  ! 
There  cam  a  knight  to  be  their  wooer, 

By  the  bonnie  milldams  o'  Binnorie. 
He  courted  the  eldest  with  glove  and  ring, 
But  he  lo'ed  the  youngest  abune  a'  thing. 

The  eldest  she  was  vexed  sair, 
And  sair  envied  her  sister  fair. 

Upon  a  morning  fair  and  clear, 
She  cried  upon  her  sister  dear: 

1  O  sister,   sister,  tak  my  hand, 

And  let's  go  down  to  the  river-strand.' 

She 's  ta'en  her  by  the  lily  hand, 
And  led  her  down  to  the  river-strand. 

The  youngest  stood  upon  a  stane, 
The  eldest  cam  and  push'd  her  in. 

'  O  sister,  sister,   reach  your  hand  ! 
And  ye  sail  be  heir  o'  half  my  land: 

'  O  sister,   reach  me  but  your  glove ! 
And  sweet  William  sail  be  your  love.' 

Sometimes  she  sank,  sometimes  she  swam, 
Until  she  cam  to  the  miller's  dam. 

Out  then  cam  the  miller's  son, 
And  saw  the  fair  maid  soummin*  in. 

'  O  father,   father,  draw  your  dam ! 
There's  either  a  mermaid  or  a  milk-white  swan. 
ioummin'J  swimming. 
436 


ANONYMOUS 

The  miller  hasted  and  drew  his  dam, 
And  there  he  found  a  drown'd  woman. 

You  couldna  see  her  middle  sma', 
Her  gowden  girdle  was  sae  braw. 

You  couldna  see  her  lily  feet, 
Her  gowden  fringes  were  sae  deep. 

All  amang  her  yellow  hair 

A  string  o'  pearls  was  twisted  rare. 

You  couldna  see  her  fingers  sma', 

Wi'  diamond  rings  they  were  cover'd  a'. 

And  by  there  cam  a  haqjer  fine, 
That  harpit  to  the  king  at  dine. 

And  when  he  look'd  that  lady  on, 
He  sigh'd  and  made  a  heavy  moan. 

He's  made  a  harp  of  her  breast-bane, 
Whose  sound  wad  melt  a  heart  of  stane. 

He 's  ta'en  three  locks  o'  her  yellow  hair, 
And  wi'  them  strung  his  harp  sae  rare. 

He  went  into  her  father's  hall, 

And  there  was  the  court  assembled  all. 

He  laid  his  harp  upon  a  stane. 

And  straight  it  began  to  play  by  lane. 

'  O  yonder  sits  my  father,  the  King, 
And  yonder  sits  my  mother,   the  Queen  ; 

437 


ANONYMOUS 

'And  yonder  stands  my  brother  Hugh, 
And  by  him  my  William,  sweet  and  true.' 

But  the  last  tune  that  the  harp  play'd  then — 

Binnorie,  O  Binnorie/ 
Was,   '  Woe  to  my  sister,  false  Helen  ! ' 

By  the  bonnic  milldams  0'  Binnorie. 

$77.     The  Bonnie  House  o'  Girlie 

TT  fell  on  a  day,  and  a  bonnie  simmer  day, 
*•     When  green  grew  aits  and  barley, 
That  there  fell  out  a  great  dispute 
Between  Argyll  and  Airlie. 

Argyll  has  raised  an  hunder  men, 

An  hunder  harness'd  rarely, 
And  he's  awa'  by  the  back  of  Dunkell, 

To  plunder  the  castle  of  Airlie. 

Lady  OgiMe  looks  o'er  her  bower-window, 

And  O  but  she  looks  warely ! 
And  there  she  spied  the  great  Argyll, 

Come  to  plunder  the  bonnie  house  of  Airlie. 

'  Come  down,  come  down,  my  Lady  Ogilvie, 

Come  down  and  kiss  me  fairly : ' 
'  O  I  winna  kiss  the  fause  Argyll, 

If  he  shouldna  leave  a  standing  stane  in  Airlie.' 

He  hath  taken  her  by  the  left  shoulder, 
Says,   '  Dame,  where  lies  thy  dowry  ? ' 

'  O  it 's  east  and  west  yon  wan  water  side, 
And  it's  down  by  the  banks  of  the  Airlie.' 


ANONYMOUS 

They  hae  sought  it  up,  they  hae  sought  it  down. 

They  hae  sought  it  maist  severely, 
Till  they  fand  it  in  the  fair  plum-tree 

That  shines  on  the  bowling-green  of  Airlie. 

He  hath  taken  her  by  the  middle  sae  small, 

And  O  but  she  grat  sairly ! 
And  laid  her  down  by  the  bonnie  burn-side, 

Till  they  plunder'd  the  castle  of  Airlie. 

'  Gif  my  gude  lord  war  here  this  night, 

As  he  is  with  King   Charlie, 
Neither  you,  nor  ony  ither  Scottish  lord, 

Durst  avow  to  the  plundering  of  Airlie. 

'  Gif  my  gude  lord  war  now  at  hame, 

As  he  is  with  his  king, 
There  durst  nae  a  Campbell  in  a'  Argyll 

Set  fit  on  Airlie   green. 

'Ten  bonnie  sons  I  have  borne  unto   him. 

The  eleventh  ne'er  saw  his  daddy; 
But  though   I  had  an  hunder  mair, 

I'd  gie  them  a*  to  King  Charlie ! ' 


.      The  Wife  of  Usher's  Well 

T^HERE  lived  a  wife  at  Usher's  well, 

And  a  wealthy  wife  was  she ; 
She  had  three  stout  and  stalwart  sons, 
And  sent  them  o'er  the  sea. 


439 


ANONYMOUS 

They  hadna  been  a  week  from  her, 

A  week  but  barely  ane, 
When  word  came  to  the  carline  wife 

That  her  three  sons  were  gane. 

They  hadna  been  a  week  from  her, 

A  week  but  barely  three, 
When  word  came  to  the  carline  wife 

That  her  sons  she'd  never  see. 

'  I  wish  the  wind  may  never  cease, 

Nor  fashes  in  the  flood, 
Till  my  three  sons  come  hame  to  me. 

In  earthly  flesh  and  blood !  ' 

It  fell  about  the  Martinmas, 

When  nights  are  lang  and  mirk, 

The  carline  wife's  three  sons  came  hame, 
And  their  hats  were  o'  the  birk. 

It  neither  grew  in  syke  nor  ditch, 

Nor  yet  in  ony  sheugh  ; 
But  at  the  gates  o'  Paradise 

That  birk  grew  fair  eneugh. 

*  Blow  up  the  fire,  my  maidens  I 
Bring  water  from  the  well ! 

For  a'  my  house  shall  feast  this  night., 
Since  my  three  sons  are  well.' 

And  she  has  made  to  them  a  bed, 
She  's  made  it  large  and  wide  ; 

And  she 's  ta'en  her  mantle  her  about. 

Sat  down  at  the  bedside. 
fashes]  troubles.  syke]  marsh.  sheugh]  trench. 

440 


ANONYMOUS 

Up  then  crew  the  red,  red  cock. 

And  up  and  crew  the  gray ; 
The  eldest  to  the  youngest  said, 

"Tis  time  we  were  away.' 

The  cock  he  hadna  craw'd  but  once, 

And  clapp'd  his  wings  at  a', 
When  the  youngest  to  the  eldest  said, 

*  Brother,  we  must  awa'. 

kThe  cock  doth  craw,  the  day  doth  daw, 

The  channerin'  worm  doth  chide ; 
Gin  we  be  miss'd  out  o*  our  place, 

A  sair  pain  we  maun  bide.' 

'  Lie  still,  lie  still  but  a  little  wee  while, 

L  ie  still  but  if  we  may ; 
Gin  my  mother  should  miss  us  when  she  wakes, 

She'll  go  mad  ere  it  be  day.' 

'  Fare  ye  weel,  my  mother  dear  1 

Fareweel  to  barn  and  byre ! 
And  fare  ye  weel,  the  bonny  lass 

That  kindles  my  mother's  fire ! ' 


^7p.  The  Three  Ravens 

'  I  'HERE  were  three  ravens  sat  on  a  tree, 
•*•       They  were  as  black  as  they  might  be. 

The  one  of  them  said  to  his  make, 
'  Where  shall  we  our  breakfast  take  \ ' 

JjS,  chaanerin*]  fretting.  J79>  make]  mate. 


ANONYMOUS 

'Down  in  yonder  greenfc  field 

There  lies  a  knight  slain  under  his  shield; 

'  His  hounds  they  lie  down  at  his  fee% 
So  well  do  they  their  master   keep ; 

'  His  hawks  they  flic  so  eagerly, 
There  's  no  fowl  dare  come  him  nigh. 

'Down  there  comes  a  fallow  doe 

As  great  with  young  as  she  might  goe. 

'She  lift  up  his  bloudy  head 

And  kist  his  wounds  that  were  so  red. 

*  She  gat  him  up  upon  her  back 
And  carried  him  to  earthen  lake. 

'She  buried  him  before  the  prime, 

She  was  dead  herself  ere  evensong  time. 

'  God  send  every  gentleman 

Such  hounds,  such  hawks,  and  such  a  lenian.' 


380.  The  Twa  Corbies 

(SCOTTISH  VERSION) 

A  S  1  was  walking  all  alane 
•*^     I  heard  twa  corbies  making  a  mane: 
The  tane  unto  the  tither  did  say, 
'  Whar  sail  we  gang  and  dine  the  day  ? ' 

j8o.  corbies]  ravens. 
442 


ANONYMOUS 

4 — In  behint  yon  auld  fail  dyke 
I  wot  there  lies  a  new-slain  knight; 
And  naebody  kens  that  he  lies  there 
But  his  hawk,  his  hound,  and  his  lady  fair. 

'  His  hound  is  to  the  hunting  gane, 
His  hawk  to  fetch  the  wild-fowl  hame, 
His  lady's  ta'en  anither  mate, 
So  we  may  mak  our  dinner  sweet. 

'  Ye'll  sit  on  his  white  hause-bane, 
And  I'll  pike  out  his  bonny  blue  e'en  : 
Wi'  ae  lock  o'  his  gowden  hair 
We'll  theek  our  nest  when  it  grows  bare. 

'Mony  a  one  for  him  maks  mane, 
But  nane  sail  ken  whar  he  is  gane : 
O'er  his  white  banes,  when  they  are  bare, 
The  wind  sail  blaw  for  evermair.' 


381-  4  Lyke-^ake  T>irge 

"THIS  ae  nighte,  this  ae  nighte, 
*•       — Every  nighte  and  alle, 
Fire  and  sleet  and  candle-lighte, 
And  Christe  receive  thy  saulc. 

When  thou  from  hence  away  art  past, 

— Every  nighte  and  alle, 
To  Whinny-muir  thou  com'st  at  last; 

And  Christe  receive  thy  taule. 

jSo.  fail]  turf.         hause]  neck.         theek]  thatch.        j8i,  sleet]  salt 


ANONYMOUS 

If  ever  thou  gavest  hosen  and  shoon, 

— Every  n'tghte  and  a//e, 
Sit  thee  down  and  put  them  on ; 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 

If  hosen  and  shoon  thou  ne'er  gav*st  nane 

— Every  n'tghte  and  alle, 
The  whinnes  sail  prick  thee  to  the  bare  bane ; 

And  Christe  receive  thy   saule. 

From  Whinny-muir  when  thou  may'st  pass. 

— Every  nighte  and  alle, 
To  Brig  o'  Dread  thou  com'st  at  last ; 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 

From  Brig  o'  Dread  when  thou  may'st  pass, 

— Every   nighte  and  alle, 
To  Purgatory  fire  thou  com'st  at  last; 

And  Christe  receive  thy   saule. 

If  ever  thou  gavest  meat  or  drink, 

— Every  nighte  and  alley 
The  fire  sail  never  make  thee  shrink ; 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 

If  meat  or  drink  thou  ne'er  gav'st  nane, 

— Every   nighte  and  alle, 
The  fire  will  burn  thee  to  the  bare  bane; 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 

This  ae  nighte,   this  ae  nighte, 

— Every   nighte  and  alle, 
Fire  and  sleet  and  candle-lighte, 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 


ANONYMOUS 
$82.  The  Seven  Virgins. 

A    CAROL 

ALL  under  the  leaves  and  the  leaves  of  life 
*^      I  met  with  virgins  seven, 
And  one  of  them  was  Mary  mild, 
Our  Lord's  mother  of  Heaven. 

'O  what  are  you  seeking,  you  seven  fair  maids, 

All  under  the  leaves  of  life  ? 
Come  tell,   come  tell,  what  seek  you 

All  under  the  leaves  of  life  ? ' 

'  We're  seeking  for  no  leaves,  Thomas, 

But  for  a  friend  of  thine ; 
We're  seeking  for  sweet  Jesus  Christ, 

To  be  our  guide  and  thine.' 

'Go  down,  go  down,  to   yonder  town, 

And  sit  in  the  gallery, 
And  there  you'll  see  sweet  Jesus  Christ 

Nail'd  to  a  big   yew-tree.' 

So  down  they  went  to  yonder  town 

As  fast  as  foot  could  fall, 
And  many  a  grievous  bitter  tear 

From  the  virgins'  eyes  did  fall. 

1 0  peace,  Mother,   O  peace,   Mother, 

Your  weeping  doth  me  grieve: 
I  must  suffer  this,'  He  said, 

'  For  Adam  and  for  Eve. 


ANONYMOUS 

'O  Mother,  take  you  John  Evangelist 

All  for  to  be  your  son, 
And  he  will  comfort  you  sometimes, 

Mother,  as  I  have  done.' 

'O  come,  thou  John  Evangelist, 

Thou'rt  welcome  unto  me; 
But  more  welcome  my  own  dear  Son, 

Whom  I  nursed  on  my  knee.' 

Then  He  laid  his  head  on  His  right  shoulder. 

Seeing  death  it  struck  Him  nigh — 
'The  Holy  Ghost  be  with  your  soul, 

I  die,  Mother  dear,  I  die.' 

O  the  rose,  the  gentle  rose, 

And  the  fennel  that  grows  so  green ! 

God  give  us  grace  in  every  place 
To  pray  for  our  king  and  queen. 

Furthermore  for  our  enemies  all 

Our  prayers  they  should  be  strong: 

Amen,  good  Lord  ;    your  charity 
Is  the  ending  of  my  song. 

5  8  3.  "Two  Rivers 

CAYS  Tweed  to  Till— 

^      '  What  gars  ye  rin  sae  stili  ?  ' 

Says  Till  to  Tweed— 
'Though  ye  rin  with  speed 

And  I  rin  slaw, 
For  ae  man  that  ye  droon 

I  droon  twa.5 
446 


M 


ANONYMOUS 


$84.  Cradle  Song 

OMY  deir  hert,  young  Jesus   sweit, 
Prepare  thy  creddil  in  my  spreit. 
And  I  sail  rock  thee  in  my  hert 
And  never  mair  from  thee  depart. 

But  I  sail  praise  thee  evermoir 
With  sangis  sweit  unto  thy  gloir; 
The  knees  of  my  hert  sail  I  bow, 
And  sing  that  richt  JBalulalow  ! 

38?.  The  Call 

Y  blood  so  red 

For  thee  was  shed, 
Come  home  again,   come  home  again  ; 
My  own  sweet  heart,  come  home  again ! 
You've  gone  astray 
Out  of  your  way, 
Come  home  again,  come  home  again ! 

$86.     The  Bonny  Earl  of  Murray 

\^E  Highlands  and  ye  Lawlands, 

O  where  hae  ye  been  ? 
They  hae  slain  the  Earl  of  Murray, 
And  hae  laid  him  on  the  green. 

Now  wae  be  to  thee,   Huntley ! 

And  whairfore  did  ye  sae ! 
I  bade  you  bring  him  wi'  you, 

But  forbade  you  him  to  slay. 

447 


ANONYMOUS 

He  was  a  braw  gallant, 

And  he  rid  at  the  ring; 
And  the  bonny  Earl  of  Murray, 

O  he  might  hae  been  a  king! 

He  was  a  braw  gallant, 

And  he  play'd  at  the  ba' ; 
And  the  bonny  Earl  of  Murray 

Was  the  flower  amang  them  a'! 

He  was  a  braw  gallant, 

And  he  play'd  at  the  gluve; 

And  the  bonny  Earl  of  Murray, 
O  he  was  the  Queen's  luve  I 

O  lang  will  his  Lady 

Look  owre  the  Castle  Downe, 

Ere  she  see  the  Earl  of  Murray 
Come  sounding  through  the  town  1 

38  7.  Helen  of  Kirconnell 

T    WISH  I  were  where  Helen  lies, 
*•      Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 
O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies, 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea  ! 

Curst  be  the  heart  that  thought  the  thought, 
And  curst  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot, 
When  in  my  arms  burd  Helen  dropt, 
And  died  to  succour  me  ! 

O  think  na  ye  my  heart  was  sair, 
When  my  Love  dropp'd  and  spak  nae  mair  1 
There  did  she  swoon  wi'  meikle  care, 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 

448 


ANONYMOUS 

As  I  went  down  the  water  side, 
None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea; 

I  lighted  down  my  sword  to  draw, 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma', 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma', 
For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 

O  Helen  fair,  beyond  compare  1 
I'll  mak  a  garland  o'  thy  hair, 
Shall  bind  my  heart  for  evermair, 
Until  the  day  I  die  ! 

O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies  I 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries  ; 
Out  of  my  bed  she  bids  me  rise, 
Says,   '  Haste,  and  come  to  me !  ' 

0  Helen  fair!    O  Helen  chaste! 
If  I  were  with  thee,   I'd  be  blest, 
Where  thou  lies  low  and  taks  thy  rest, 

On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 

1  wish  my  grave  were  growing  green, 
A  winding-sheet  drawn  owre  my  e'en, 
And  I  in  Helen's  arms  lying, 

On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies! 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 
And  I  am  weary  of  the  skies, 
For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 


ANONYMOUS 

388. 

WALY,  waly,  up  the  bank, 

And  waly,  waly,  doun  the  brae, 
And  waly,  waly,  yon  burn-side, 

Where  I  and  my  Love  wont  to  gae  1 
I  lean'd  my  back  unto  an  aik, 

I  thocht  it  was  a  trustie  tree ; 
But  first  it  bow'd  and  syne  it  brak — 
Sae  my  true  love  did  lichtlie  me. 

O  waly,   waly,  gin  love  be  bonnie 

A  little  time  while  it  is  new  1 
But  when  'tis  auld  it  waxeth  cauld, 

And  fades  awa'  like  morning  dew. 
O  wherefore  should  I  busk  my  heid, 

Or  wherefore  should  I  kame  my  hair  ? 
For  my  true  Love  has  me  forsook, 

And  says  he'll  never  lo'e  me  mair. 

Now  Arthur's  Seat  sail  be  my  bed, 

The  sheets  sail  ne'er  be  'filed  by  me; 
Saint  Anton's  well  sail  be  my  drink ; 

Since  my  true  Love  has  forsaken  me. 
Marti'mas  wind,  when  wilt  thou  blaw, 

And  shake  the  green  leaves  aff  the  tree  ? 
O  gentle  Death,  when  wilt  thou  come  ? 

For  of  my  life  I  am  wearie. 

Tis  not  the  frost,  that  freezes  fell, 
Nor  blawing  snaw's  inclemencie, 

'Tis  not  sic  cauld  that  makes  me  cry ; 
But  my  Love's  heart  grown  cauld  to  me. 

450 


ANONYMOUS 

When  we  cam  in  by  Glasgow  toun, 
We  were  a  comely  sicht  to  see  ; 

My  Love  was  clad  in  the  black  velvet, 
And  I  mysel  in  cramasie. 

But  had  I  wist,  before  I  kist, 

That  love  had  been  sae  ill  to  win, 
I  had  lock'd  my  heart  in  a  case  o'  gowd, 

And  pinn'd  it  wi'  a  siller  pin. 
And  O  !    if  my  young  babe  were  born, 

And  set  upon  the  nurse's  knee; 
And  I  mysel  were  dead  and  gane, 

And  the  green  grass  growing  over  me ! 


$89.         Barbara  Allen's  Cruelty 

'N  Scarlet  town,  where  I  was  born, 

There  was  a  fair  maid  dwellin', 
Made  every  youth  cry  Well-a-<way ! 
Her  name  was  Barbara  Allen. 


I 


All  in  the  merry  month  of  May, 

When  green  buds  they  were  swellin', 

Young  Jemmy  Grove  on  his  death-bed  lay, 
For  love  of  Barbara  Allen. 

He  sent  his  man  in  to  her  then, 

To  the  town  where  she  was  dwellin', 

*O  haste  and  come  to  my  master  dear, 
If  your  name  be  Barbara  Allen.' 

So  slowly,  slowly  rase  she  up, 
And  slowly  she  came  nigh  him, 

And  when  she  drew  the  curtain  by — 
'  Young  man,  I  think  you're  dyinV 
j88.  cramasie]  crimson. 


ANONYMOUS 

'  O  it 's  I  am  sick  and  very  very  sick, 

And  it 's  all  for  Barbara  Allen.' 
'  O  the  better  for  me  ye'se  never  be, 

Tho'  your  heart's  blood  were  a-spillin' ! 
'O  dinna  ye  mind,  young  man,'  says  she, 

'  When  the  red  wine  ye  were  fillin', 
That  ye  made  the  healths  go  round  and  round. 

And  slighted  Barbara  Allen  ? ' 
He  turn'd  his  face  unto  the  wall, 

And  death  was  with  him  dealin' : 
'  Adieu,  adieu,   my  dear  friends  all, 

And  be  kind  to  Barbara  Allen ! ' 
As  she  was  walking  o'er  the  fields, 

She  heard  the  dead-bell  knellin'; 
And  every  jow  the  dead-bell  gave 

Cried  'Woe  to  Barbara  Allen.' 
4  O  mother,   mother,   make  my  bed, 

O  make  it  saft  and  narrow : 
My  love  has  died  for  me  to-day, 

I'll  die  for  him  to-morrow. 
'  Farewell,'  she  said,   '  ye  virgins  all, 

And  shun  the  fault  I  fell  in: 
Henceforth  take  warning  by  the  fall 

Of  cruel  Barbara  Allen.' 

$p0.  Tipe  and  Can 

i 

HP  HE  Indian  weed  withered  quite; 

Green  at  morn,  cut  down  at  night  j 
Shows  thy  decay:    all  flesh  is  hay: 

Thus  think,  then  drink  Tobacco, 
jow]  beat,  toll. 


ANONYMOUS 

And  when  the  smoke  ascends  on  high, 
Think  thou  behold'st  the  vanity 
Of  worldly  stuff,  gone  with  a  puff: 
Thus  think,  then  drink  Tobacco. 

But  when  the  pipe  grows  foul  within, 
Think  of  thy  soul  defiled  with  sin, 
And  that  the  fire  doth  it  require: 

Thus  think,  then  drink  Tobacco. 

The  ashes,  that  are  left  behind, 
May  serve  to  put  thee  still  in  mind 
That  unto  dust  return  thou  must: 
Thus  think,  then  drink  Tobacco. 


WTHEN  as  the  chill  Charokko  blows, 

And  Winter  tells  a  heavy  tale; 
When  pyes  and  daws  and  rooks  and  c'rows 
Sit  cursing  of  the  frosts  and  snows; 
Then  give  me  ale. 

Ale  in  a  Saxon  rumkin  then, 

Such  as  will  make  grimalkin  prate; 
Bids  valour  burgeon  in  tall  men, 
Quickens  the  poet's  wit  and  pen, 
Despises  fate. 

Ale,   that  the  absent  battle  fights, 

And  frames  the  march  of  Swedish  drum, 
Disputes  with  princes,  laws,  and  rights, 
What's  done  and  past  tells  mortal  wights, 

And  what's  to  come. 
Charokko]  Scirocco. 


ANONYMOUS 

Ale,  that  the  plowman's  heart  up-keeps 
And  equals  it  with  tyrants'  thrones, 
That  wipes  the  eye  that  over-weeps, 
And  lulls  in  sure  and  dainty  sleeps 
Th'  o'er- wearied  bones. 

Grandchild  of  Ceres,   Bacchus'  daughter, 

Wine's  emulous  neighbour,  though   but  stale. 
Ennobling  all  the  nymphs  of  water, 
And  filling  each  man's  heart  with  laughter — 
Ha  !    give  me  ale ! 


Love    will  find  out  the  Way 

OVER  the  mountains 
And  over  the  waves, 
Under  the  fountains 

And  under  the  graves ; 
Under  floods  that  are  deepest, 

Which  Neptune  obey, 
Over  rocks  that  are  steepest, 
Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

When  there  is  no  place 

For  the  glow-worm  to  lie, 
When  there  is  no  space 

For  receipt  of  a  fly; 
When  the  midge  dares  not  venture 

Lest  herself  fast  she  lay, 
If  Love  come,  he  will  enter 

And  will  find  out  the  way. 


ANONYMOUS 

You  may  esteem  him 

A  child  for  his  might; 
Or  you  may  deem  him 

A  coward  for  his  flight; 
But  if  she  whom  Love  doth  honour 

Be  conceal  'd  from  the  day — 
Set  a  thousand  guards  upon  her, 

Love  will  find  out  the  way. 
Some  think  to  lose  him 

By  having  him  confined ; 
And  some  do  suppose  him, 

Poor  heart !    to  be  blind  ; 
But  if  ne'er  so  close  ye  wall  him, 

Do  the  best  that  ye  may, 
Blind  Love,  if  so  ye  call  him, 

He  will  find  out  his  way. 

You  may  train  the  eagle 

To  stoop  to  your  fist; 
Or  you  may  inveigle 

The  Phoenix  of  the  east; 
The  lioness,  you  may  move  her 

To  give  over  her  prey ; 
But  you'll  ne'er  stop  a  lover — 

He  will  find  out  the  way. 
If  the  earth  it  should  part  him, 

He  would  gallop  it  o'er ; 
If  the  seas  should  o'erthwart  him, 

He  would  swim  to  the  shore ; 
Should  his  Love  become  a  swallow, 

Through  the  air  to  stray, 
Love  will  lend  wings  to  follow, 

And  will  find  out  the  way. 


ANONYMOUS 

There  is  no  striving 

To  cross  his  intent; 
There  is  no  contriving 

His  plots  to  prevent ; 
But  if  once  the  message  greet  him 

That  his  True  Love  doth  stay, 
If  Death  should  come  and  meet  him, 

Love  will  find  out  the  way! 


392.  Thillada,  flouts  Me 

OWHAT  a  plague  is  love! 
How  shall  I  bear  it? 
She  will  inconstant  prove, 

I  greatly  fear  it. 
She  so  torments  my  mind 

That  my  strength  faileth, 
And  wavers  with  the  wind 

As  a  ship  saileth. 
Please  her  the  best  I  may, 
She  loves  still  to  gainsay; 
Alack  and  well-a-day! 

Phillada  flouts  me. 

At  the  fair  yesterday 

She  did  pass  by  me ; 
She  look'd  another  way 

And  would  not  spy  me: 
I  woo'd  her  for  to  dine, 

But  could   not  get  her ; 
Will  had  her  to  the  wine — 

He  might  entreat  her. 
456 


ANONYMOUS 

With  Daniel  she  did  dance, 
On  me  she  look'd  askance: 

0  thrice  unhappy  chance ! 
Phillada  flouts  me. 

Fair  maid,  be  not  so  coy, 
Do  not  disdain  me ! 

1  am  my  mother's  joy : 
Sweet,  entertain  me ! 

She'll  give  me,   when  she  dies, 
All  that  is  fitting: 

Her  poultry  and  her  bees, 
And  her  goose  sitting, 

A  pair  of  mattrass  beds, 

And  a  bag  full  of  shreds; 

And  yet,   for  all  this  guedes, 
Phillada  flouts  me! 

She  hath  a  clout  of  mine 

Wrought  with  blue  Coventry, 
Which  she  keeps  for  a  sign 

Of  my  fidelity: 
But  i'  faith,  if  she  flinch 

She  shall  not  wear  it; 
To  Tib,   my  t'other  wench, 

I  mean  to  bear  it. 
And  yet  it  grieves  my  heart 
So  soon  from  her  to  part : 
Death  strike  me  with  his  dart! 

Phillada  flouts  me. 

Thou  shalt  eat  crudded  cream 
All  the  year  lasting, 

guedes]  goods,  property  of  any  kind. 
Q3 


ANONYMOUS 

And  drink  the  crystal  stream 

Pleasant  in  tasting ; 
Whig  and  whey  whilst  thou  lusc, 

And  bramble-berries, 
Pie-lid  and  pastry-crust, 

Pears,  plums,  and  cherries. 
Thy  raiment  shall  be  thin, 
Made  of  a  weevil's  skin — 
Yet  all 's  not  worth  a  pin ! 

Phillada  flouts  me. 


In  the  last  month  of  May 

I  made  her  posies; 
I  heard  her  often  say 

That  she  loved  roses. 
Cowslips  and  gillyflowers 

And  the  white  lily 
I  brought  to  deck  the  bowers 

For  my  sweet  Philly. 
But  she  did  all  disdain, 
And  threw  them  back  again ; 
Therefore  'tis  flat  and  plain 

Phillada  flouts  me. 

Fair  maiden,  have  a  care, 

And  in  time  take  me; 
I  can  have  those  as  fair 

If  you  forsake  me: 
For  Doll  the  dairy-maid 

Laugh'd  at  me  lately, 
And  wanton  Winifred 

Favours  me  greatly. 
458 


ANONYMOUS 

One  throws  milk  on  my  clothes, 
T'other  plays  with  my  nose; 
What  wanting  signs  are  those? 
Phillada  flouts  me. 


I  cannot  work  nor  sleep 

At  all  in  season: 
Love  wounds  my  heart  so  deep 

Without  all  reason. 
I  'gin  to  pine  away 

In  my  love's  shadow, 
Like  as  a  fat  beast  may, 

Penn'd  in  a  meadow. 
I  shall  be  dead,   I  fear, 
Within  this  thousand  year : 
And  all  for  that  my  dear 

Phillada  flouts  me. 


Chlorls  in  the  Snow 

T    SAW  fair  Chloris  walk  alone, 
•^      When  feather'd  rain  came  softly  down, 
As  Jove  descending  from  his  Tower 
To  court  her  in  a  silver  shower : 
The  wanton  snow  flew  to  her  breast, 
Like  pretty  birds  into  their  nest, 
But,  overcome  with  whiteness  there, 
For  grief  it  thaw'd  into  a  tear : 

Thence  falling  on  her  garments'  hem, 
To  deck  her,   froze  into  a  gem. 


439 


THOMAS  STANLEY 

394.  The  Relapse 

1625-1678 

(~\  TURN  away  those  cruel  eyes, 
^•^      The  stars  of  my  undoing  ! 
Or  death,  in  such  a  bright  disguise, 
May  tempt  a  second  wooing. 

Punish  their  blind  and  impious  pride, 

Who  dare  contemn  thy  glory  ; 
It  was  my  fall  that  deified 

Thy  name,  and  seal'd  thy  story. 

Yet  no  new  sufferings  can  prepare 
A  higher  praise  to  crown  thee  ; 

Though  my  first  death  proclaim  thee  fair, 
My  second  will  unthrone  thee. 

Lovers  will  doubt  thou  canst  entice 

No  other  for  thy  fuel, 
And  if  thou  burn  one  victim  twice, 

Both  think  thee  poor  and  cruel. 


THOMAS  D'URFEY 

Chloe  'Divine 

1653-17*3 

a  Nymph  in  flowery  groves, 
•^      A  Nereid  in  the  streams; 
Saint-like  she  in  the  temple  moves, 
A  woman  in  my  dreams. 

Love  steals  artillery  from  her  eyes, 

The  Graces  point  her  charms; 
Orpheus  is  rivall'd  in  her  voice, 

And  Venus  in  her  arms. 
460 


THOMAS  D'URFEY 

Never  so  happily  in  one 

Did  heaven  and  earth  combine: 
And  yet  'tis  flesh  and  blood  alone 

That  makes  her  so  divine. 


CHARLES  COTTON 

$96.  To  Ccelia 

1630-1 
YVTHEN,  Coelia,   must  my  old  day  set, 

And  my  young  morning  rise 
In  beams  of  joy  so  bright  as  yet 

Ne'er  bless'd  a  lover's  eyes  ? 
My  state  is  more  advanced  than  when 

I  first  attempted  thee: 
I  sued  to  be  a  servant  then, 
But  now  to  be  made  free. 

I've  served  my  time  faithful  and  true, 

Expecting  to  be  placed 
In  happy  freedom,  as  my  due, 

To  all  the  joys  thou  hast : 
111  husbandry  in  love  is  such 

A  scandal  to  love's  power, 
We  ought  not  to  misspend  so  much 

As  one  poor  short-lived  hour. 

Yet  think  not,   sweet,   I'm  weary  grown, 

That  I  pretend  such  haste ; 
Since  none  to  surfeit  e'er  was  known 

Before  he  had  a  taste: 
My  infant  love  could  humbly  wait 

When,  young,  it  scarce  knew  how 
To  plead ;    but  grown  to  man's  estate, 

He  is  impatient  now. 

461 


KATHERINE  PHILIPS  ('ORINDA') 

3P/.    To  One  persuading  a  Lady  to 

Marriage 

1631-1664 

"CORBEAR,  bold  youth;    all's  heaven  here, 

And  what  you  do  aver 
To  others  courtship  may  appear, 

'Tis  sacrilege  to  her. 
She  is  a  public  deity ; 

And  were  't  not  very  odd 
She  should  dispose  herself  to  be 

A  petty  household  god? 

First  make  the  sun  in  private  shine 

And  bid  the  world  adieu, 
That  so  he  may  his  beams  confine 

In  compliment  to  you: 
But  if  of  that  you  do  despair, 

Think  how  you  did  amiss 
To  strive  to  fix  her  beams  which  are 

More  bright  and  large  than  his. 

JOHN  DRYDEN 
398.  Ode 

To  the  Pious  Memory  of  the  accomplished  young  lady ,  Mrs.  Anne 
Kil/igreiv,   excellent  in   the  tivo  sister  arts  of  Poesy  and 

PaintinS  ,631-700 

'  I  'HOU  youngest  virgin-daughter  of  the  skies, 
•*•       Made  in  the  last  promotion  of  the  blest; 
Whose  palms,  new  pluck'd  from  Paradise, 
In  spreading  branches  more  sublimely  rise, 


JOHN  DRYDEN 

Rich  with  immortal  green  above  the  rest: 
Whether,  adopted  to  some  neighbouring  star, 
Thou  roll'st  above  us,  in  thy  wandering  race, 

Or,  in  procession  fix'd  and  regular, 

Moved  with  the  heaven's  majestic  pace; 

Or,  call'd  to  more  superior  bliss, 
Thou  tread'st  with  seraphims  the  vast  abyss: 
Whatever  happy  region  be  thy  place, 
Cease  thy  celestial  song  a  little  space; 
Thou  wilt  have  time  enough  for  hymns  divine, 

Since  Heaven's  eternal  year  is  thine. 
Hear,  then,  a  mortal  Muse  thy  praise  rehearse, 

In  no  ignoble  verse ; 

But  such  as  thy  own  voice  did  practise  here, 
When  thy  first-fruits  of  Poesy  were  given, 
To  make  thyself  a  welcome  inmate  there; 

While  yet  a  young  probationer, 
And  candidate  of  heaven. 

If  by  traduction  came  thy  mind, 

Our  wonder  is  the  less,  to  find 
A  soul  so  charming  from  a  stock  so  good ; 
Thy  father  was  transfused  into  thy  blood  : 
So  wert  thou  born  into  a  tuneful  strain, 
An  early,  rich,  and  inexhausted  vein. 

But  if  thy  pre-existing  soul 

Was  form'd  at  first  with  myriads  more, 
It  did  through  all  the  mighty  poets  roll 

Who  Greek  or  Latin  laurels  wore, 
And  was  that  Sappho  last,   which  once  it  was  before. 

If  so,  then  cease  thy  flight,   O  heaven-born  mind 
Thou  hast  no  dross  to  purge  from  thy  rich  ore: 

Nor  can  thy  soul  a  fairer  mansion  find, 

463 


JOHN  DRYDEN 

Than  was  the  beauteous  frame  she  left  behind : 
Return,  to  fill  or  mend  the  quire  of  thy  celestial  kind. 

May  we  presume  to  say,   that,  at  thy  birth, 
New  joy  was  sprung  in  heaven  as  well  as  here  on  earth  ? 
For  sure  the  milder  planets  did  combine 
On  thy  auspicious  horoscope  to  shine, 
And  even  the  most   malicious  were  in  trine. 

Thy  brother-angels  at  thy  birth 

Strung  each  his  lyre,  and  tuned  it  high, 

That  all  the  people  of  the  sky 
Might  know  a  poetess  was  born  on  earth; 

And  then,  if  ever,   mortal  ears 

Had  heard  the  music  of  the  spheres. 

And  if  no  clustering  swarm  of  bees 
On  thy  sweet  mouth  distill'd  their  golden  dew, 

'Twas  that  such  vulgar  miracles 

Heaven  had  not  leisure  to  renew : 
For  all  the  blest  fraternity  of  love 
Solemnized  there  thy  birth,  and  kept  thy  holiday  above. 

O  gracious  God !    how  far  have  we 
Profaned  thy  heavenly  gift  of  Poesy  ! 
Made  prostitute  and  profligate  the  Muse, 
Debased  to  each  obscene  and  impious  use, 
Whose  narmony  was  first  ordain'd  above, 
For  tongues  of  angels  and  for  hymns  of  love ! 
O  wretched  we !    why  were  we  hurried  down 

This  lubrique  and  adulterate  age 
(Nay,  added  fat  pollutions  of  our  own), 

To  increase  the  streaming  ordures  of  the  stage? 
What  can  we  say  to  excuse  our  second  fall  ? 
Let  this  thy  Vestal,  Heaven,  atone  for  all! 
Her  Arethusian  stream  remains  unsoil'd, 


JOHN  DRYDEN 

Unmix'd  with  foreign  filth,  and  undefiled; 
Her  wit  was  more  than  man,  her  innocence' a  child. 

Art  she  had  none,  yet  wanted  none, 
For  Nature  did  that  want  supply: 
So  rich  in  treasures  of  her  own, 

She  might  our  boasted  stores  defy  : 
Such  noble  vigour  did  her  verse  adorn, 
That  it  seem'd  borrow'd,   where  'twas  only  born. 
Her  morals,  too,  were  in  her  bosom  bred, 

By  great  examples  daily  fed, 

What  in  the  best  of  books,  her  father's  life,   she  read. 
And  to  be  read  herself  she  need  not  fear; 
Each  test,  and  every  light,  her  Muse  will  bear, 
Though  Epictetus  with  his  lamp  were  there. 
^Even  love  (for  love  sometimes  her  Muse  exprest) 
Was  but  a  lambent  flame  which  play'd  about  her  breast, 

Light  as  the  vapours  of  a  morning  dream ; 

So^  cold  herself,   whilst  she  such  warmth  exprest, 

'Twas  Cupid  bathing  in  Diana's  stream.   .  . 

Now  all  those  charms,   that  blooming  grace, 
The  well-proportion'd  shape,  and  beauteous  face, 
Shall  never  more  be  seen  by  mortal  eyes ; 
In  earth  the  much-lamented  virgin  lies. 
Not  wit,  nor  piety  could  fate  prevent; 
Nor  was  the  cruel  destiny  content 
To  finish  all  the  murder  at  a  blow, 
To  sweep  at  once  her  life  and  beauty  too; 
But,  like  a  harden'd  felon,   took  a  pride 
To  work  more  mischievously  slow, 
And  plunder'd  first,  and  then  destroy'd. 
O  double  sacrilege  on  things  divine, 

465 


JOHN  DRYDEN 

To  rob  the  relic,  and  deface  the  shrine! 

But  thus  Orinda  died: 

Heaven,  by  the  same  disease  did  both  translate ; 
As  equal  were  their  souls,   so  equal  was  their  fate. 

Meantime,  her  warlike  brother  on  the  seas 
His  waving  streamers  to  the  winds  displays, 
And  vows  for  his  return,  with  vain  devotion,  pays. 
Ah,  generous  youth !   that  wish  forbear, 
The  winds  too  soon  will  waft  thee  here ! 
Slack  all  thy  sails,  and  fear  to  come, 
Alas,  thou  know'st  not,  thou  art  wreck'd  at  home! 
No  more  shalt  thou  behold  thy  sister's  face, 
Thou  hast  already  had  her  last  embrace. 
But  look  aloft,  and  if  thou  kenn'st  from  far, 
Among  the  Pleiads  a  new  kindled  star, 
If  any  sparkles  than  the  rest  more  bright, 
'Tis  she  that  shines  in  that  propitious  light. 

When  in  mid-air  the  golden  trump  shall  sound, 

To  raise  the  nations  under  ground ; 
When,  in  the  Valley  of  Jehoshaphat, 
The  judging  God  shall  close  the  book  of  Fate, 

And  there  the  last  assizes  keep 

For  those  who  wake  and  those  who  sleep; 

When  rattling  bones  together  fly 

From  the  four  corners  of  the  sky ; 
When  sinews  o'er  the  skeletons  are  spread, 
Those  clothed  with  flesh,  and  life  inspires  the  dead ; 
The  sacred  poets  first  shall  hear  the  sound, 

And  foremost  from  the  tomb  shall  bound, 
For  they  are  cover'd  with  the  lightest  ground ; 
And  straight,  with  inborn  vigour,  on  the  wing, 

466 


JOHN  DRYDEN 

Like  mounting  larks,  to  the  new  morning  sing. 
There  thou,   sweet  Saint,  before  the  quire  shall  go, 
As  harbinger  of  Heaven,  the  way  to  show, 
The  way  which  thou  so  well  hast  learn'd  below. 


3  pp.  A  Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  1687 


CROM  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony, 

This  universal  frame  began  : 
When  nature  underneath  a  heap 

Of  jarring  atoms  lay, 
And  could  not  heave  her  head, 
The  tuneful  voice  was  heard  from  high, 

'  Arise,  ye  more  than  dead  !  ' 
Then  cold,  and  hot,  and  moist,  and  dry, 
In  order  to  their  stations  leap, 
And  Music's  power  obey. 
From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony, 
This  universal  frame  began  : 
From  harmony  to  harmony 
Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes  it  ran, 
The  diapason  closing  full  in  Man. 

What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell? 

When  Jubal  struck  the  chorded  shell, 
His  listening  brethren  stood  around, 

And,  wondering,  on  their  faces  fell 
To  worship  that  celestial  sound  : 
Less  than  a  God  they  thought  there  could  not  dwell 
Within  the  hollow  of  that  shell 
That  spoke  so  sweetly  and  so  well. 
What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell  ? 

467 


JOHN  DRYDEN 

The  trumpet's  loud  clangour 

Excites  us  to  arms, 
With  shrill  notes  of  anger, 

And  mortal  alarms. 
The  double  double  double  beat 
Of  the  thundering  drum 
Cries  Hark!    the  foes  come; 
Charge,   charge,   'tis  too  late  to  retreat ! 

The  soft  complaining  flute, 
In  dying  notes,  discovers 
The  woes  of  hopeless  lovers, 
Whose  dirge  is  whisper'd  by  the  warbling  lute. 

Sharp  violins  proclaim 
Their  jealous  pangs  and  desperation, 
Fury,  frantic  indignation, 
Depth  of  pains,  and  height  of  passion, 

For  the  fair,  disdainful  dame. 

But  O,   what  art  can  teach, 
What  human  voice  can  reach, 
The  sacred  organ's  praise  ? 
Notes  inspiring  holy  love, 
Notes  that  wing  their  heavenly  ways 
To  mend  the  choirs  above. 

Orpheus  could  lead  the  savage  race ; 
And  trees  uprooted  left  their  place, 

Sequacious  of  the  lyre; 
But  bright  Cecilia  raised  the  wonder  higher: 
When  to  her  organ  vocal  breath  was  given, 
An  angel  heard,  and  straight  appear'd 
Mistaking  Earth  for  Heaven. 


JOHN  DRYDEN 

GRAND  CHORUS. 

As  from  the  power  of  sacred  lays 

The  spheres  began  to  move, 
And  sung  the  great  Creator's  praise 

To  all  the  Blest  above  ; 
So  when  the  last  and  dreadful  hour 
This  crumbling  pageant  shall  devour, 
The  trumpet  shall  be  heard  on  high, 
The  dead  shall  live,   the  living  die, 
And  Music  shall  untune  the  sky  ! 

400.      Ah,  how  sweet  it  is  to  love: 

A  H,   how  sweet  it  is  to  love ! 
'*^     Ah,  how  gay  is  young  Desire  ! 
And  what  pleasing  pains  we  prove 

When  we  first  approach  Love's  fire! 
Pains  of  love  be  sweeter  far 
Than  all  other  pleasures  are. 

Sighs  which  are  from  lovers  blown 
Do  but  gently  heave  the  heart : 

Ev'n  the  tears  they  shed  alone 

Cure,  like  trickling  balm,   their  smart ; 

Lovers,   when  they  lose  their  breath, 

Bleed  away  in  easy  death. 

Love  and  Time  with  reverence  use, 
Treat  them  like  a  parting  friend; 

Nor  the  golden  gifts  refuse 

Which  in  youth  sincere  they  send: 

For  each  year  their  price  is  more, 

And  they  less  simple  than  before. 

469 


JOHN  DRYDEN 

Love,  like  spring-tides  full  and  high, 
Swells  in  every  youthful  vein ; 

But  each  tide  does  less  supply, 
Till  they  quite  shrink  in  again: 

If  a  flow  in  age  appear, 

Tis  but  rain,  and  runs  not  clear. 


407.  Hidden  Flame 

T    FEED  a  flame  within,  which  so  torments  me 
•*•      That  it  both  pains  my  heart,  and  yet  contents  me: 
'Tis  such  a  pleasing  smart,  and  I  so  love  it, 
That  I  had  rather  die  than  once  remove  it. 

Yet  he,  for  whom  I  grieve,  shall  never  know  it ; 
My  tongue  does  not  betray,  nor  my  eyes   show  it. 
Not  a  sigh,  nor  a  tear,  my  pain  discloses, 
But  they  fall  silently,  like  dew  on  roses. 

Thus,  to  prevent  my  Love  from  being  cruel, 
My  heart 's  the  sacrifice,  as  'tis  the  fuel ; 
And  while  I  suffer  this  to  give  him  quiet, 
My  faith  rewards  my  love,  though  he  deny  it. 

On  his  eyes  will  I  gaze,  and  there  delight  me  ; 
While  I  conceal  my  love  no  frown  can  fright  me. 
To  be  more  happy  I  dare  not  aspire, 
Nor  can  I  fall  more  low.  mounting  no  higher. 


JOHN  DRYDEN 


402.  Song  to  a  Fair  Toung  Lady,  going 
out  of  the  Town  in  the  Spring 

A  SK  not  the  cause  why  sullen  Spring 
**•     So  long  delays  her  flowers  to  bear; 
Why  warbling  birds  forget  to  sing, 

And  winter  storms  invert  the  year: 
Chloris  is  gonej    and  fate  provides 
To  make  it  Spring  where  she  resides. 

Chloris  is  gone,  the  cruel  fair; 

She  cast  not  back  a  pitying  eye: 
But  left  her  lover  in  despair 

To  sigh,  to  languish,  and  to  die: 
Ah !    how  can  those  fair  eyes  endure 
To  give  the  wounds  they  will  not  cure? 

Great  God  of  Love,  why  hast  thou  made 
A  face  that  can  all  hearts  command, 

That  all  religions  can  invade, 

And  change  the  laws  of  every  land? 

Where  thou  hadst  placed  such  power  before, 
Thou  shouldst  have    made  her  mercy  more 

When  Chloris  to  the  temple  comes, 
Adoring  crowds  before  her  fall ; 

She  can  restore  the  dead  from  tombs 
And  every  life  but  mine  recall. 

I  only  am  by  Love  design'd 

To  be  the  victim  for  mankind. 


CHARLES  WEBBE 

403.  Against  Indifference 

c.  1678 

TV^ORE  love  or  more  disdain  I  crave; 
™*      Sweet,  be  not  still  indifferent: 
O  send  me  quickly  to  my  grave, 

Or  else  afford  me  more  content! 
Or  love  or  hate  me  more  or  less, 
For  love  abhors  all  lukewarmness. 

Give  me  a  tempest  if  'twill  drive 
Me  to  the  place  where  I  would  be; 

Or  if  you'll  have  me  still  alive, 
Confess  you  will  be  kind  to  me. 

Give  hopes  of  bliss  or  dig  my  grave: 

More  love  or  more  disdain  I  crave. 

SIR  GEORGE  ETHEREGE 

404.  Sons: 

1635-169? 

T  ADIES,  though  to  your  conquering  eyes 

Love  owes  his  chiefest  victories, 
And  borrows  those  bright  arms  from  you 
With  which  he  does  the  world  subdue, 
Yet  you  yourselves  are  not  above 
The  empire  nor  the  griefs  of  love. 

Then  rack  not  lovers  with  disdain, 
Lest  Love  on  you  revenge  their  pain: 
You  are  not  free  because  you're  fair: 
The  Boy  did  not  his  Mother  spare. 
Beauty  's  but  an  offensive  dart : 
It  is  no  armour  for  the  heart. 


SIR  GEORGE  ETHEREGE 

40.f.  To  a,  Lady  asking  him  how  long  he 
would  love  her 

TT  is  not,  Celia,  in  our  power 

To  say  how  long  our  love  will  last ; 
It  may  be  we  within  this  hour 

May  lose  those  joys  we  now  do  taste ; 
The  Blessed,  that  immortal  be, 
From  change  in  love  are  only  free. 

Then  since  we  mortal  lovers  are, 

Ask  not  how  long  our  love  will  last; 

But  while  it  does,  let  us  take  care 
Each  minute  be  with  pleasure  past : 

Were  it  not  madness  to  deny 

To  live  because  we're  sure  to  die  ? 


THOMAS  TRAHERNE 

40  6.  News 

^T  EWS  from  a  foreign  country  came 
*•       As  if  my  treasure  and  my  wealth  lay  there 
So  much  it  did  my  heart  inflame, 
Twas  wont  to  call  my  Soul  into  mine  ear ; 
Which  thither  went  to  meet 
The  approaching  sweet, 
And  on  the  threshold  stood 
To  entertain  the  unknown  Good. 

It  hover'd  there 
As  if  'twould  leave  mine  ear, 

473 


THOMAS  TRAHERNE 

And  was  so  eager  to  embrace 

The  joyful  tidings  as  they  came, 
'T would  almost  leave  its  dwelling-place 
To  entertain  that  same. 

As  if  the  tidings  were  the  things, 
My  very  joys  themselves,  my  foreign  treasure — 

Or  else  did  bear  them  on  their  wings — 
With  so  much  joy  they  came,  with  so  much  pleasure. 
My  Soul  stood  at  that  gate 

To  recreate 

Itself  with  bliss,  and  to 
Be  pleased  with  speed.     A  fuller  view 

It  fain  would  take, 
Yet  journeys  back  would  make 
Unto  my  heart;    as  if  'twould  fain 
Go  out  to  meet,  yet  stay  within 
To  fit  a  place  to  entertain 

And  bring  the  tidings  in. 

What  sacred  instinct  did  inspire 
My  soul  in  childhood  with  a  hope  so  strong? 

What  secret  force  moved  my  desire 
To  expect  my  joys  beyond  the  seas,  so  young  ? 
Felicity  I  knew 

Was  out  of  view, 
And  being  here  alone, 
I  saw  that  happiness  was  gone 
From  me  !    For  this 
I  thirsted  absent  bliss, 
And  thought  that  sure  beyond  the  seas, 
Or  else  in  something  near  at  hand — 
I  knew  not  yet — since  naught  did  please 
I  knew — my  Bliss  did  stand. 

474 


THOMAS  TRAHERNE 

But  little  did  the  infant  dream 
That  all  the  treasures  of  the  world  were  by : 

And  that  himself  was  so  the  cream 
And  crown  of  all  which  round  about  did  lie. 
Yet  thus  it  was:    the  Gem, 

The  Diadem, 

The  ring  enclosing  all 

That  stood  upon  this  earthly  ball, 

The  Heavenly  eye, 
Much  wider  than  the  sky, 
Wherein  they  all  included  were, 

The  glorious  Soul,   that  was  the    King 
Made  to  possess  them,  did  appear 
A  small  and  little  thing ! 


THOMAS  FLATMAN 
407.  The  Sad 


1637-  1688 
r\   THE  sad  day! 

^-^     When  friends  shall  shake  their  heads,  and  say 
Of  miserable  me  — 
'  Hark,  how   he  groans  ! 
Look,   how  he  pants  for  breath  ! 
See  how  he  struggles  with  the  pangs  of  death  !  ' 
When  they  shall  say  of  these  dear  eyes  — 
'  How  hollow,  O  how  dim  they  be  ! 
Mark  how  his  breast  doth  rise  and  swell 
Against  his  potent  enemy!' 

When  some  old  friend  shall  step  to  my  bedside, 
Touch  my  chill  face,  and  thence  shall  gently  slide. 


THOMAS  FLATMAN 

But — when  his  next  companions  say 

'How  does  he  do?    What  hopes?' — shall  turn  away, 

Answering  only,  with  a  lift-up  hand — 

'Who  can  his  fate  withstand?' 

Then  shall  a  gasp  or  two  do  more 
Than  e'er  my  rhetoric  could  before : 
Persuade  the  world  to  trouble  me  no  more ' 


CHARLES  SACKVILLE,  EARL  OF  DORSET 
408.  Song 

Written  at  Sea,  in  the  First  Dutch  War  (l66j),  the 

night  before  an  Engagement 

1638-1706 
'O  all  you  ladies  now  at  land 

We  men  at  sea  indite ; 
But  first  would  have  you  understand 

How  hard  it  is  to  write: 
The  Muses  now,  and  Neptune  too, 
We  must  implore  to  write  to  you — 
With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la. 


T 


For  though  the  Muses  should  prove  kind, 

And  fill  our  empty  brain, 
Yet  if  rough  Neptune  rouse  the  wind 

To  wave  the  azure  main, 
Our  paper,  pen,  and  ink,  and  we, 
Roll  up  and  down  our  ships  at 
With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la. 


EARL  OF  DORSET 

Then  if  we  write  not  by  each  post, 

Think  not  we  are  unkind; 
Nor  yet  conclude  our  ships  are  lost 

By  Dutchmen  or  by  wind : 
Our  tears  we'll  send  a  speedier  way, 
The  tide  shall  bring  them  twice  a  day — 
With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la. 

The  King  with  wonder  and  surprise 
Will  swear  the  seas  grow  bold, 

Because  the  tides  will  higher  rise 
Than  e'er  they  did  of  old: 

But  let  him  know  it  is  our  tears 

Bring  floods  of  grief  to  Whitehall  stairs — 
With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la. 

Should  foggy  Opdam  chance  to  know 

Our  sad  and  dismal  story, 
The  Dutch  would  scorn  so  weak  a   foe, 

And  quit  their  fort  at  Goree  : 
For  what  resistance  can  they  find 
From  men  who've  left  their  hearts  behind  ?• 

With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la. 
Let  wind  and  weather  do  its  worst, 

Be  you  to  us  but  kind ; 
Let  Dutchmen  vapour,   Spaniards  curse, 

No  sorrow  we  shall  find : 
'Tis  then  no  matter  how  things  go, 
Or  who  's  our  friend,   or  who  's  our  foe — 

With  a  fa,   la,  la,  la,  la. 
To  pass  our  tedious  hours  away 

We  throw  a  merry  main, 
Or  else  at  serious  ombre  play : 

But  why  should  we  in  vain 

477 


EARL  OF  DORSET 

Each  other's  ruin  thus  pursue  i 
We  were  undone  when  we  left  you — 
With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la. 

But  now  our  fears  tempestuous  grow 

And  cast  our  hopes  away; 
Whilst  you,  regardless  of  our  woe, 

Sit  careless  at  a  play : 
Perhaps  permit  some  happier  man 
To  kiss  your  hand,  or  flirt  your  fan — 
With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la. 

When  any  mournful  tune  you  hear, 

That  dies  in  every  note 
As  if  it  sigh'd  with  each  man's  care 

For  being  so  remote, 
Think  then  how  often  love  we've  made 
To  you,  when  all  those  tunes  were  pby'd — 
With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la. 

In  justice  you  cannot  refuse 

To  think  of  our  distress, 
When  we  for  hopes  of  honour  lose 

Our  certain  happiness : 
All  those  designs  are  but  to  prove 
Ourselves  more  worthy  of  your  love — 
With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la. 

And  now  we've  told  you  all  our  loves, 

And  likewise  all  our  fears, 
In  hopes  this  declaration  moves 

Some  pity  for  our  tears: 
Let's  hear  of  no  inconstancy — 
We  have  too  much  of  that  at  sea—- 
With a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  lu. 


SIR  CHARLES   SEDLEY 

To  Chloris 

•639-1701 

AH,  Chloris !    that  I  now  could  sit 
•*^-     As  unconcern 'd  as  when 
Your  infant  beauty  could  beget 

No  pleasure,  nor  no  pain ! 
When  I  the  dawn  used  to  admire, 

And  praised  the  coming  day, 
I  little  thought  the  growing  fire 

Must  take  my  rest  away. 
Your  charms  in  harmless  childhood  lay 

Like  metals  in  the  mine ; 
Age  from  no  face  took  more  away 

Than  youth  conceal'd  in  thine. 
But  as  your  charms  insensibly 

To  their  perfection  prest, 
Fond  love  as  unperceived  did  fly, 

And  in  my  bosom  rest. 
My  passion  with  your  beauty  grew, 

And  Cupid  at  my  heart, 
Still  as  his  mother  favour'd  you, 

Threw  a  new  flaming  dart : 
Each  gloried  in  their  wanton  part; 

To  make  a  lover,  he 
Employ'd  the  utmost  of  his  art — 

To  make  a  beauty,  she. 


N1 


4/0.  To  Cdia, 

'OT,  Celia,  that  I  juster  am 

Or  better  than  the  rest ! 
For  I  would  change  each  hour,  like  them, 
Were  not  my  heart  at  rest. 

479 


SIR  CHARLES  SEDLEY 

But  I  am  tied  to  very  thee 

By  every  thought  I  have ; 
Thy  face  I  only  care  to  see, 

Thy  heart  I  only  crave. 

All  that  in  woman  is  adored 

In  thy  dear  self  I  find— 
For  the  whole  sex  can  but  afford 

The  handsome  and  the  kind. 
Why  then  should  I  seek  further  store, 

And  still  make  love  anew  ? 
When  change  itself  can  give  no  more, 

'Tis  easy  to  be  true ! 

APHRA  BEHN 

4/7.  Song 

1640-1689 

T   OVE  in  fantastic  triumph  sate 
•^     Whilst  bleeding  hearts  around  him  flow'd, 
For  whom  fresh  pains  he  did  create 

And  strange  tyrannic  power  he  show'd : 
From  thy  bright  eyes  he  took  his  fires, 

Which  round  about  in  sport  he  hurl'd; 
But  'twas  from  mine  he  took  desires 

Enough  t'  undo  the  amorous  world. 

From  me  he  took  his  sighs  and  tears, 

From  thee  his  pride  and  cruelty ; 
From  me  his  languishments  and  fears, 

And  every  killing  dart  from  thee. 
Thus  thou  and  I  the  god  have  arm'd 

And  set  him  up  a  deity; 
But  my  poor  heart  alone  is  harm'd, 

Whilst  thine  the  victor  is,  and  freel 


APHRA  BERN 


4/2.  The  Libertine 

A    THOUSAND  martyrs  I  have  made, 
**•       All  sacrificed  to  my  desire, 
A  thousand  beauties  have  betray'd 
That  languish  in  resistless  fire : 
The  untamed  heart  to  hand  I  brought, 
And  fix'd  the  wild  and  wand'ring  thought. 

I  never  vow'd  nor  sigh'd  in  vain, 

But  both,  tho'  false,  were  well  received  ; 

The  fair  are  pleased  to  give  us  pain, 
And  what  they  wish  is  soon  believed: 

And  tho'  I  talk'd  of  wounds  and  smart, 

Love's  pleasures  only  touch'd  my  heart. 

Alone  the  glory  and  the  spoil 
I  always  laughing  bore  away; 

The  triumphs  without  pain  or  toil, 
Without  the  hell  the  heaven  of  joy ; 

And  while  I  thus  at  random  rove 

Despise  the  fools  that  whine  for  love. 


JOHN  WILMOT,  EARL  OF  ROCHESTER 

4/3.  Return 

1647-1680 

ABSENT  from  thee,  I  languish  still; 
•**      Then  ask  me  not,  When  I  return  ? 
The  straying  fool  'twill  plainly  kill 
To  wish  all  day,  all  night  to  mourn. 

R  48» 


EARL  OF  ROCHESTER 

Dear,  from  thine  arms  then  let  me  fly, 
That  my  fantastic  mind  may  prove 

The  torments  it  deserves  to  try, 

That  tears  my  fix'd  heart  from  my  love. 

When,  wearied  with  a  world  of  woe, 

To  thy  safe  bosom  I  retire, 
Where  love,  and  peace,  and  truth  does  flow, 

May  I  contented  there  expire! 

Lest,  once  more  wandering  from  that  heaven, 
I  fall  on  some  base  heart  unblest; 

Faithless  to  thee,  false,  unforgiven — 
And  lose  my  everlasting  rest. 

4/4.  Love  and  Life 

ALL  my  past  life  is  mine  no  more; 
•**•     The  flying  hours  are  gone, 
Like  transitory  dreams  given  o'er, 
Whose  image?  are  kept  in  store 
By  memory  alone. 

The  time  that  is  to  come  is  not; 

How  can  it  then  be  mine  ? 
The  present  moment's  all  my  lot; 
And  that,  as  fast  as  it  is  got, 

Phillis,  is  only  thine. 

Then  talk  not  of  inconstancy, 

False  hearts,  and  broken  vows; 
If  I  by  miracle  can  be 
This  live-long  minute  true  to  thee. 
'Tis  all  that  Heaven  allows. 


EARL  OF  ROCHESTER 


4/.T.  Constancy 

T   CANNOT  change  as  others  cio, 

Though  you  unjustly  scorn  ; 
Since  that  poor  swain  that  sighs  for  you 

For  you  alone  was  born. 
No,   Phillis,   no  ;    your  heart  to  move 

A  surer  way  I'll  try; 
And,  to  revenge  my  slighted  love, 

Will  still  love  on  and  die. 

When  kill'd  with  grief  Amyntas  lies, 

And  you  to  mind  shall  call 
The  sighs  that  now  unpitied  rise, 

The  tears  that  vainly  fall — 
That  welcome  hour,   that  ends  this  smart, 

Will  then  begin  your  pain ; 
For  such  a  faithful  tender  heart 

Can  never  break  in  vain. 


416.  To  His  Mistress 

YVTHY  dost  thou  shade  thy  lovely  face?    O  why 

Does  that  eclipsing  hand  of  thine  deny 
The  sunshine  of  the  Sun's  enlivening  eye  ? 

Without  thy  light  what  light  remains  in  me  ? 
Thou  art  my  life ;    my  way,   my  light 's  in  thee ; 
I  live,   I  move,  and  by  thy  beams  I  see. 

Thou  art  my  life — if  thou  but  turn  away 

My  life 's  a  thousand  deaths.     Thou  art  my  way — 

Without  thee,   Love,  I  travel  not  but  stray. 

483 


EARL  OF  ROCHESTER 

My  light  thou  art — without  thy  glorious  sight 

My  eyes  are  darken'd  with  eternal  night. 

My  Love,  thou  ait  my  way,   my  life,   my  light. 

Thou  art  my  way;    I  wander  if  thou  fly. 
Thou  art  my  light ;    if  hid,  how  blind  am  I ! 
Thou  art  my  life ;    if  thou  withdraw'st,   I  die. 

My  eyes  are  dark  and  blind,   I  cannot  see: 
To  whom  or  whither  should  my  darkness  flee, 
But  to  that  light  ? — and  who  's  that  light  but  thee  ? 

If  I  have  lost  my  path,  dear  lover,  say, 
Shall  I  still  wander  in  a  doubtful  way  ? 
Love,  shall  a  lamb  of  Israel's  sheepfold  stray? 

My  path  is  lost,   my  wandering  steps  do  stray ; 

I  cannot  go,  nor  can  I  safely  stay ; 

Whom  should  I  seek  but  thee,  my  path,  my  way? 

And  yet  thou  turn'st  thy  face  away  and  fly'st  me! 
And  yet  I  sue  for  grace  and  thou  deny'st  me ! 
Speak,  art  thou  angry,   Love,  or  only  try'st  me  ? 

Thou  art  the  pilgrim's  path,  the  blind  man's  eye, 
The  dead  man's  life.     On  thee  my  hopes  rely : 
If  I  but  them  remove,  I  surely  die. 

Dissolve  thy  sunbeams,  close  thy  wings  and  stay! 
See,  see  how  I  am  blind,  and  dead,  and  stray  1 
— O  thou  that  art  my  life,  my  light,  my  way! 

Then  work  thy  will !     If  passion  bid  me  flee, 
My  reason  shall  obey,  my  wings  shall  be 
Stretch'd  out  no  farther  than  from  me  to  thee  1 
484 


JOHN  SHEFFIELD,  DUKE  OF 
BUCKINGHAMSHIRE 

4/7.  The  Reconcilement 

1649-1720 

/^^OME,  let  us  now  resolve  at  last 
^—'     To  live  and  love  in  quiet; 
We'll  tie  the  knot  so  very  fast 
That  Time  shall  ne'er  untie  it. 

The  truest  joys  they  seldom  prove 

Who  free  from  quarrels  live : 
Tis  the  most  tender  part  of  love 

Each  other  to  forgive. 

When  least  I  seem'd  concern'd,  I  took 

No  pleasure  nor  no  rest ; 
And  when  I  feign'd  an  angry  look, 

Alas!    I  loved  you  best. 

Own  but  the  same  to  me — you'll  find 

How  blest  will  be  our  fate. 
O  to  be  happy — to  be  kind — 

Sure  never  is  too  late! 


.  On  One  who  died  discovering  her 
Kindness 

COME  vex  their  souls  with  jealous  pain, 
^     While  others  sigh  for  cold  disdain  : 
Love's  various  slaves  we  daily  see — 
Yet  happy  all  compared  with  me! 

485 


DUKE  OF  BUCKINGHAMSHIRE 

Of  all  mankind  I  loved  the  best 
A  nymph  so  far  above  the  rest 
That  we  outshined  the  Blest  above; 
In  beauty  she,  as  I  in  love. 

And  therefore  They,  who  could  not  bear 
To  be  outdone  by  mortals  here, 
Among  themselves  have  placed  her  now, 
And  left  me  wretched  here  below. 

All  other  fate  I  could  have  borne, 
And  even  endured  her  very  scorn; 
But  oh !    thus  all  at  once  to  find 
That  dread  account — both  dead  and  kind '. 
What  heart  can  hold  ?     If  yet  I  live, 
Tis  but  to  show  how  much  I  grieve. 


THOMAS  OTWAY 

41  p.  The  Enchantment 

1652-1685 
\   DID  but  look  and  love  awhile, 

'Twas  but  for  one  half-hour; 
Then  to  resist  I  had  no  will, 
And  now  I  have  no  power. 

To  sigh  and  wish  is  all  my  ease ; 

Sighs  which  do  heat  impart 
Enough  to  melt  the  coldest  ice, 

Yet  cannot  warm  your  heart. 

O  would  your  pity  give  my  heart 

One  corner  of  your  breast, 
'Twould  learn  of  yours  the  winning  art. 

And  quickly  steal  the  rest. 


JOHN  OLDHAM 

420.  A  Quiet  Soul 

1653-168.5 
"THY  soul  within  such  silent  pomp  did  keep, 

As  if  humanity  were  lull'd  asleep ; 
So  gentle  was  thy  pilgrimage  beneath, 

Time's  unheard  feet  scarce  make  less  noise, 
Or  the  soft  journey  which  a  planet  goes : 
Life  seem'd  all  calm  as  its  last  breath. 
A  still  tranquillity  so  hush'd  thy  breast, 
As  if  some  Halcyon  were  its  guest, 
And  there  had  built  her  nest; 
It  hardly  now  enjoys  a  greater  rest. 


JOHN  CUTTS,  LORD  CUTTS 
42*.  Song 

i66 

/~\NLY  tell  her  that  I  love. 

^-^      Leave  the  rest  to  her  and  Fate  : 

Some  kind  planet  from  above 

May  perhaps  her  pity  move : 

Lovers  on  their  stars  must  wait. — 
Only  tell  her  that  I  love ! 

Why,   O  why  should  I  despair  J 

Mercy  's  pictured  in  her  eye : 
If  she  once  vouchsafe   to  hear, 
Welcome  Hope  and  farewell   Fear  ! 

She 's  too  good  to  let  me  die. — 
Why,  O  why  should  I  despair? 

487 


MATTHEW  PRIOR 

422.          The  Question  to  Ltsetta 

1664-17*1 

WHAT  nymph  should  I  admire  or  trust, 
But  Chloe  beauteous,  Chloe  just? 
What  nymph  should  I  desire  to  see, 
But  her  who  leaves  the  plain  for  me? 
To  whom  should  I  compose  the  lay, 
But  her  who  listens  when  I  play  ? 
To  whom  in  song  repeat  my  cares, 
But  her  who  in  my  sorrow  shares  ? 
For  whom  should  I  the  garland  make, 
But  her  who  joys  the  gift  to  take, 
And  boasts  she  wears  it  for  my  sake  ? 
In  love  am  I  not  fully  blest  ? 
Lisetta,  prithee  tell  the  rest 

LISETTA'S  REPLY. 
Sure  Chloe  just,  and  Chloe  fair, 
Deserves  to  be  your  only  care; 
But,  when  you  and  she  to-day 
Far  into  the  wood  did  stray, 
And  I  happen'd  to  pass  by, 
Which  way  did  you  cast  your  eye  ? 
But,  when  your  cares  to  her  you  sing, 
You  dare  not  tell  her  whence  they  spring ; 
Does  it  not  more  afflict  your  heart, 
That  in  those  cares  she  bears  a  part? 
When  you  the  flowers  for  Chloe  twine, 
Why  do  you  to  her  garland  join 
The  meanest  bud  that  falls  from  mine  ? 
Simplest  of  swains !    the  world  may  see 
Whom  Chloe  loves,  and  who  loves  me. 
488 


MATTHEW  PRIOR 
423.          To  a,  Child  of  Quality, 

Five  Tears  Old,   1704.      The  Author  then   Forty 
T   ORDS,   knights,  and  squires,  the  numerous  band 
•*-*  That  wear  the  fair  Miss  Mary's  fetters, 
Were  summoned  by  her  high  command 

To  show  their  passions  by  their  letters. 
My  pen  amongst  the  rest  I  took, 

Lest  those  bright  eyes,  that  cannot  read, 
Should  dart  their  kindling  fires,   and  look 

The  power  they  have  to  be  obey'd. 

Nor  quality,   nor  reputation, 

Forbid  me  yet  my  flame  to  tell ; 
Dear  Five-years-old  befriends  my  passion. 

And  I  may  write  till  she  can  spell. 

For,  while  she  makes  her  silkworms  beds 
With  all  the  tender  things  I  swear ; 

Whilst  all  the  house  my  passion  reads, 
In  papers  round  her  baby's  hair ; 

She  may  receive  and  own  my  flame ; 

For,  though  the  strictest  prudes  should  know  it, 
She'll  pass  for  a  most  virtuous  dame, 

And  I  for  an  unhappy  poet. 

Then  too,  alas !  when  she  shall  tear 
The  rhymes  some  younger  rival  sends, 

She'll  give  me  leave  to  write,  I  fear, 
And  we  shall  still  continue  friends. 

For,  as  our  different  ages  move, 

'Tis  so  ordain'd  (would  Fate  but  mend  it !), 
That  I  shall  be  past  making  love 

When  she  begins  to  comprehend  it. 


MATTHEW  PRIOR 

424.  Song 

"THE  merchant,  to  secure  his  treasure, 
•*•       Conveys  it  in  a  borrow'd  name: 
Euphelia  serves  to  grace  my  measure; 
But  Chloe  is  my  real  flame. 

My  softest  verse,  my  darling  lyre, 

Upon  Euphelia's  toilet  lay ; 
When  Chloe  noted  her  desire 

That  I  should  sing,  that  I  should  play. 

My  lyre  I  tune,  my  voice  I  raise; 

But  with  my  numbers  mix  my  sighs: 
And  while  I  sing  Euphelia's  praise, 

I  fix  my  soul  on  Chloe's  eyes. 

Fair  Chloe  blush 'd  :    Euphelia  frown'd : 

I  sung,  and  gazed :    I  play'd,  and  trembled ! 

And  Venus  to  the  Loves  around 

Remark'd,  how  ill  we  all  dissembled. 


.       On  My  Birthday,  July  21 

I      MY  dear,  was  born  to-day — 
J     So  all  my  jolly  comrades  say: 
They  bring  me  music,  wreaths,  and  mirth, 
And  ask  to  celebrate  my  birth : 
Little,  alas!    my  comrades  know 
That  I  was  born  to  pain  and  woe ; 
To  thy  denial,  to  thy  scorn, 
Better  I  had  ne'er  been  born : 
1  wish  to  die,  even  whilst  I  say — 
'I,  my  dear,  was  born  to-day.' 
490 


MATTHEW  PRIOR 

I,  my  dear,  was  born  to-day: 
Shall  I  salute  the  rising  ray, 
Well-spring  of  all  my  joy  and  woe? 
Clotilda,  thou  alone  dost  know. 
Shall  the  wreath  surround  my  hair? 
Or  shall  the  music  please  my  ear? 
Shall  I  my  comrades'  mirth  receive, 
And  bless  my  birth,  and  wish  to  live? 
Then  let  me  see  great  Venus  chase 
Imperious  anger  from  thy  face ; 
Then  let  me  hear  thee  smiling  say — 
'Thou,  my  dear,   wert  born  to-day.' 


4.26.  The  Lady  'who  offers  her  Looking- 
Glass  to  F'enus 

WENUS,  take  my  votive  glass: 
"     Since  I  am  not  what  I  was, 
What  from  this  day  I  shall  be, 
Venus,  let  me  never  see. 


M 


427.  A  Letter 

to  Lady  Margaret   Cavendish  Holles-Harley,  tvhen  a   Child 

Y  noble,  lovely,  little  Peggy, 

Let  this  my  First  Epistle  beg  ye, 
At  dawn  of  morn,  and  close  of  even, 
To  lift  your  heart  and  hands  to  Heaven. 
In  double  duty  say  your  prayer : 
Our  Father  first,  tben  Notre  Pert. 

49« 


MATTHEW  PRIOR 

And,  dearest  child,  along  the  day, 
la  every  thing  you  do  and  say, 
Obey  and  please  my  lord  and  lady, 
So  God  shall  love  and  angels  aid  ye. 

If  to  these  precepts  you  attend, 
No  second  letter  need  I  send, 
And  so  I  rest  your  constant  friend. 

428.         For  my  own  Monument 

A!  doctors  give  physic  by  way  of  prevention, 
Mat,  alive  and  in  health,  of  his  tombstone  took  care; 
For  delays  are  unsafe,  and  his  pious  intention 
May  haply  be  never  fulfill'd  by  his  heir. 

Then  take  Mat's  word  for  it,  the  sculptor  is  paid; 

That  the  figure  is  fine,  pray  believe  your  own  eye ; 
Yet  credit  but  lightly  what  more  may  be  said, 

For  we  flatter  ourselves,  and  teach  marble  to  lie. 

Yet  counting  as  far  as  to  fifty  his  years, 

His  virtues  and  vices  were  as  other  men's  are  ; 

High  hopes  he  conceived,  and  he  smother'd  great  fears, 
In  a  life  parti-colour'd,  half  pleasure,  half  care. 

Nor  to  business  a  drudge,  nor  to  faction  a  slave, 
He  strove  to  make  int'rest  and  freedom  agree; 

In  public  employments  industrious  and  grave, 

And  alone  with  his  friends,  Lord !  how  merry  was  he ! 

Now  in  equipage  stately,  now  humbly  on  foot, 

Both  fortunes  he  tried,  but  to  neither  would  trust; 

And  whirl'd  in  the  round  as  the  wheel  turn'd  about, 
He  found  riches  had  wings,  and  knew  man  was  but  dust. 


MATTHEW  PRIOR 

This  verse,  little  polish'd,  tho'  mighty  sincere, 

Sets  neither  his  titles  nor  merit  to  view  ; 
It  says  that  his  relics  collected  lie  here, 

And  no  mortal  yet  knows  too  if  this  may  be  true. 
Fierce  robbers  there  are  that  infest  the  highway, 

So  Mat  may  be  kill'd,   and  his  bones  never  found; 
False  witness  at  court,  and  fierce  tempests  at  sea, 

So  Mat  may  yet  chance  to  be  hang'd  or  be  drown'd. 
If  his  bones  lie  in  earth,   roll  in  sea,  fly  in  air, 

To  Fate  we  must  yield,   and  the  thing  is  the  same ; 
And  if  passing  thou  giv'st  him  a  smile  or  a  tear, 

He  cares  not — yet,   prithee,   be  kind  to  his  fame. 

WILLIAM  WALSH 

429.  Rivals 

1663-1708 

r~\&  all  the  torments,  all  the  cares, 
^-^     With  which  our  lives  are  curst; 
Of  all  the  plagues  a  lover  bears, 

Sure  rivals  are  the  worst ! 
By  partners  in  each  other  kind 

Afflictions  easier  grow ; 
In  love  alone  we  hate  to  find 

Companions  of  our  woe. 
Sylvia,  for  all  the  pangs  you  see 

Are  labouring  in  my  breast, 
I  beg  not  you  would  favour  me, 

Would  you  but  slight  the  rest! 
How  great  soe'er  your  rigours  are, 

With  them  alone  I'll  cope ; 
I  can  endure  my  own  despair, 

But  not  another's  hope. 

493 


LADY  GRISEL  BAILLIE 

430.  Werena  my  Heart's  licht  I  wad  dee 

1665-1746 

T^HERE  ance  was  a  may,  and  she  lo'ed  na  men ; 

•*•     She  biggit  her  Bonnie  bow'r  doun  in  yon  glen; 
But  now  she  cries,  Dool  and  a  well-a-day! 
Come  doun  the  green  gait  and  come  here  away! 

When  bonnie  young  Johnnie  cam  owre  the  sea, 
He  said  he  saw  naething  sae  lovely  as  me ; 
He  hecht  me  baith  rings  and  mony  braw  things — 
And  werena  my  heart's  licht,   I  wad  dee. 

He  had  a  wee  titty  that  lo'ed  na  me, 

Because  I  was  twice  as  bonnie  as  she ; 

She  raised  sic  a  pother  'twixt  him  and  his  mother 

That  werena  my  heart's  licht,   I  wad  dee. 

The  day  it  was  set,  and  the  bridal  to  be : 
The  wife  took  a  dwam  and  lay  doun  to  dee; 
She  maned  and  she  graned  out  o'  dolour  and  pain, 
Till  he  vow'd  he  never  wad  see  me  again. 

His  kin  was  for  ane  of  a  higher  degree, 
Said — What  had  he  do  wi'  the  likes  of  me? 
Appose  I  was  bonnie,  I  wasna  for  Johnnie — 
And  werena  my  heart's  licht,   I  wad  dee. 

They  said  I  had  neither  cow  nor  calf, 
Nor  dribbles  o'  drink  rins  thro'  the  draff, 
Nor  pickles  o'  meal  rins  thro'  the  mill-e'e — 
And  werena  my  heart's  licht,   I  wad  dee. 

may]  maid.  biggit]  built.  gait]  way,  path.  hecht] 

promised.  titty]  sister.  dwam]  sudden  illness.  appose] 

suppose.        thro'  the  draff]  on  draught.        pickles]  small  quantities. 
494 


LADY  GRISEL  BAILLIE 

His  titty  she  was  baith  wylie  and  slee: 
She  spied  me  as  I  cam  owre  the  lea; 
And  then  she  ran  in  and  made  a  loud  din — 
Believe  your  ain  e'en,  an  ye  trow  not  me. 

His  bonnet  stood  ay  fu'  round  on  his  brow, 
His  auld  ane  look'd  ay  as  well  as  some's  new : 
But  now  he  lets  't  wear  ony  gait  it  will  hing, 
And  casts  himsel  dowie  upon  the  corn  bing. 

And  now  he  gaes  daund'ring  about  the  dykes, 
And  a'  he  dow  do  is  to  hund  the  tykes : 
The  live-lang  nicht  he  ne'er  steeks  his  e'e — 
And  werena  my  heart's  licht,  I  wad  dee. 

Were  I  but  young  for  thee,   as  I  hae  been, 
We  should  hae  been  gallopin'  doun  in  yon  green, 
And  linkin'  it  owre  the  lily-white  lea — 
And  wow,  gin  I  were  but  young  for  thee! 

WILLIAM  CONGREVE 

431.  False  though  She  be 

1670-172^ 

"CALSE  though  she  be  to  me  and  love, 
•^     I'll  ne'er  pursue  revenge ; 
For  still  the  charmer  I  approve, 
Though  I  deplore  her  change. 

In  hours  of  bliss  we  oft  have  met: 

They  could  not  always  last; 
And  though  the  present  I  regret, 

I'm  grateful  for  the  past. 

4jo.  hing]  hang.  dowie]  dejectedly.          hund  the  tykes]  hunt 

the  hounds.  steeks]  close*.  linkin']  going  arm-in-arm. 

495 


WILLIAM  CONGREVE 


32.  A  Hue  and  Cry  after  Fair  Amoret 

"CAIR  Amoret  is  gone  astray — 
•^        Pursue  and  seek  her,  ev'ry  lover ; 
I'll  tell  the  signs  by  which  you  may 
The  wand'ring  Shepherdess  discover. 

Coquette  and  coy  at  once  her  air, 

Both  studied,  tho'  both  seem  neglected; 

Careless  she  is,  with  artful  care, 
Affecting  to  seem  unaffected. 

With  skill  her  eyes  dart  ev'ry  glance, 

Yet  change  so  soon  you'd  ne'er  suspect  them 

For  she'd  persuade  they  wound  by  chance. 
Tho'  certain  aim  and  art  direct  them. 

She  likes  herself,   yet  others  hates 

For  that  which  in  herself  she  prizes; 

And,  while  she  laughs  at  them,  forgets 
She  is  the  thing  that  she  despises. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON 

433.  Hymn 

1672-1710 

THE  spacious  firmament  on  high, 
With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 
And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame, 
Their  great  Original  proclaim. 
Th'  unwearied  Sun  from  day  to  day 
Does  his  Creator's  power  display ; 
And  publishes  to  every  land 
The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand. 
496 


JOSEPH  ADDISON 

Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 
The  Moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale; 
And  nightly  to  the  listening  Earth 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth: 
Whilst  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 
And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn, 
Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll, 
And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

What  though  in  solemn  silence  all 
Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball ; 
What  though  nor  real  voice  nor  sound 
Amidst  their  radiant  orbs  be  found? 
In   Reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice, 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice; 
For  ever  singing  as  they  shine, 
'The  Hand  that  made  us  is  divine.' 


ISAAC  WATTS 

The  T)ay  of  Judgement 

1674-1748 

the  fierce  North -wind  with  his  airy  forces 
Rears  up  the  Baltic  to  a  foaming  fury; 
And  the  red  lightning  with  a  storm  of  hail  comes 
Rushing  amain  down; 

How  the  poor  sailors  stand  amazed  and  tremble, 
While  the  hoarse  thunder,  like  a  bloody  trumpet, 
Roars  a  loud  onset  to  the  gaping  waters 

Quick  to  devour  them. 

497 


ISAAC  WATTS 

Such  shall  the  noise  be,  and  the  wild  disorder 
(If  things  eternal  may  be  like  these  earthly), 
Such  the  dire  terror  when  the  great  Archangel 
Shakes  the  creation ; 

Tears  the  strong  pillars  of  the  vault  of  Heaven, 
Breaks  up  old  marble,  the  repose  of  princes, 
Sees  the  graves  open,  and  the  bones  arising, 

Flames  all  around  them. 

Hark,  the  shrill  outcries  of  the  guilty  wretches ! 
Lively  bright  horror  and  amazing  anguish 
Stare  thro'  their  eyelids,   while  the  living  worm  lies 
Gnawing  within  them. 

Thoughts,  like  old  vultures,  prey  upon  their  heart-strings, 
And  the  smart  twinges,  when  the  eye  beholds  the 
Lofty  Judge  frowning,  and  a  flood  of  vengeance 
Rolling  afore  him. 

Hopeless  immortals !    how  they  scream  and  shiver, 
While  devils  push  them  to  the  pit  wide-yawning 
Hideous  and  gloomy,  to  receive  them  headlong 
Down  to  the  centre! 

Stop  here,  my  fancy :    (all  away,  ye  horrid 
Doleful  ideas ! )    come,  arise  to  Jesus, 
How  He  sits  God-like !    and  the  saints  around  Him 
Throned,  yet  adoring ! 

O  may  I  sit  there  when  He  comes  triumphant, 
Dooming  the  nations !    then  ascend  to  glory, 
While  our  Hosannas  all  along  the  passage 

Shout  the  Redeemer. 


ISAAC  WATTS 


A  Cradle  Hymn 

t_J  USH !    my  dear,  lie  still  and  slumber, 
•*•  •*•    Holy  angels  guard  thy  bed! 
Heavenly  blessings  without  number 
Gently  falling  on  thy  head. 

Sleep,  my  babe ;    thy  food  and  raiment, 
House  and  home,  thy  friends  provide  j 

All  without  thy  care  or  payment: 
All  thy  wants  are  well  supplied. 

How  much  better  thou'rt  attended 
Than  the  Son  of  God  could  be, 

When  from  heaven  He  descended 
And  became  a  child  like  thee ! 

Soft  and  easy  is  thy  cradle : 

Coarse  and  hard  thy  Saviour  lay, 

When  His  birthplace  was  a  stable 
And  His  softest  bed  was  hay. 

Blessed  babe!    what  glorious  features — 

Spotless  fair,  divinely  bright ! 
Must  He  dwell  with  brutal  creatures? 

How  could  angels  bear  the  sight  ? 

Was  there  nothing  but  a  manger 

Cursed  sinners  could  afford 
To  receive  the  heavenly  stranger  ? 

Did  they  thus  affront  their  Lord  ? 

499 


ISAAC  WATTS 

Soft,  my  child:    I  did  not  chide  thee, 
Though  my  song  might  sound  too  hard; 

'Tis  thy  mother  sits  beside  thee, 
And  her  arms  shall  be  thy  guard. 

Yet  to  read  the  shameful  story 

How  the  Jews  abused  their  King, 

How  they  served  the  Lord  of  Glory, 
Makes  me  angry  while  I  sing. 

See  the  kinder  shepherds  round  Him, 

Telling  wonders  from  the  sky ! 
Where  they  sought  Him,  there  they  found  Him, 

With  His  Virgin  mother  by. 

See  the  lovely  babe  a-dressing ; 

Lovely  infant,  how  He  smiled ! 
When  He  wept,   the  mother's  blessing 

Soothed  and  hush'd  the  holy  child. 

Lo,   He  slumbers  in  His  manger, 

Where  the  horned  oxen  fed ; 
Peace,  my  darling  ;    here  's  no  danger, 

Here  's  no  ox  anear  thy  bed. 

'Twas  to  save  thee,  child,  from  dying, 

Save  my  dear  from  burning  flame, 
Bitter  groans  and  endless  crying, 

That  thy  blest  Redeemer  came. 

May'st  thou  live  to  know  and  fear  Him, 

Trust  and  love  Him  all  thy  days  ; 
Then  go  dwell  for  ever  near  Him, 

See  His  face,  and  sing  His  praise ! 


THOMAS  PARNELL 

436.  Song 

1679-1718 
VVTHEN  thy  beauty  appears 

™      In  its   graces  and  airs 

All  bright  as  an  angel  new  dropp'd  from  the  sky, 
At  distance  I  gaze  and  am  awed  by  my  fears : 
So  strangely  you  dazzle  my  eye ! 

But  when  without  art 

Your  kind  thoughts  you  impart, 

When  your  love  runs  in  blushes  through  every  vein ; 
When    it    darts    from    your   eyes,    when    it   pants    in    your 
heart, 

Then  I  know  you're  a  woman  again. 

There  's  a  passion  and  pride 

In  our  sex   (she  replied), 
And  thus,  might  I  gratify  both,   I  would  do: 
Still  an  angel  appear  to  each  lover  beside, 

But  still  be  a  woman  to  you. 


ALLAN  RAMSAY 

437.  Teggy 

1686-1758 

TV^Y  Peggy  is  a  young  thing, 
Just  enter'd  in  her  teens, 
Fair  as  the  day,   and  sweet  as  May, 
Fair  as  the  day,  and  always  gay; 

501 


ALLAN  RAMSAY 

My  Peggy  is  a  y°ung  thing» 

And  I'm  not  very  auld, 
Yet  well  I  like  to  meet  her  at 
The  wawking  of  the  fauld. 

My  Peggy  speaks  sae  sweetly 

Whene'er  we  meet  alane, 
I  wish  nae  mair  to  lay  my  care, 
I  wish  nae  mair  of  a'  that 's  rare ; 
My  Peggy  speaks  sae  sweetly, 

To  a'  the  lave  I'm  cauld, 

But  she  gars  a'  my  spirits  glow 

At  wawking  of  the  fauld. 

My  Peggy  smiles  sae  kindly 

Whene'er  I  whisper  love, 

That  I  look  down  on  a'  the  town, 

That  I  look  down  upon  a  crown ; 

My  Peggy  smiles  sae  kindly, 

It  makes  me  blyth  and  bauld, 
And  naething  gives  me  sic  delight 
As  wawking  of  the  fauld. 

My  Peggy  sings  sae  saftly 

When  on  my  pipe  I  play, 
By  a'  the  rest  it  is  confest, 
By  a'  the  rest,  that  she  sings  best; 
My  Peggy  sings  sae  saftly, 

And  in  her  sangs  are  tauld 
With  innocence  the  wale  of  sense, 
At  wawking  of  the  fauld. 

wawking]  watching.  lave]  rest.  wale]  choice,  best. 


B1 


WILLIAM  OLDYS 

43<?.  On  a  Fly  drinking  out  of  his  Cup 

1687-1761 

USY,   curious,  thirsty  fly ! 

Drink  with  me  and  drink  as  I : 
Freely  welcome  to  my  cup, 
Couldst  thou  sip  and  sip  it  up: 
Make  the  most  of  life  you  may, 
Life  is  short  and  wears  away. 

Both  alike  are  mine  and  thine 
Hastening  quick  to  their  decline: 
Thine 's  a  summer,  mine's  no  more, 
Though  repeated  to  threescore. 
Threescore  summers,   when  they're  gone, 
Will  appear  as  short  as  one! 


JOHN  GAY 

439- 

1688-173* 

O  RUDDIER  than  the  cherry! 
O  sweeter  than  the  berry! 

O   nymph  more  bright 

Than  moonshine  night, 
Like  kidlings  blithe  and  merry ! 
Ripe  as  the  melting  cluster! 
No  lily  has  such  lustre; 

Yet  hard  to  tame 

As  raging  flame, 
And  fierce  as  storms  that  bluster! 


ALEXANDER  POPE 

440.      On  a  certain  Lady  at  Court 

1688-1744 
T    KNOW  a  thing  that's  most  uncommon; 

(Envy,  be  silent  and  attend!) 
I  know  a  reasonable  woman, 

Handsome  and  witty,  yet  a  friend. 

Not  warp'd  by  passion,  awed  by  rumour; 

Not  grave  through  pride,  nor  gay  through  folly; 
An  equal  mixture  of  good-humour 

And  sensible  soft  melancholy. 

'  Has  she  no  faults  then  (Envy  says),  Sir  ? ' 

Yes,  she  has  one,   I  must  aver: 
When  all  the  world  conspires  to  praise  her, 

The  woman's  deaf,  and  does  not  hear. 


447.      Elegy  to  the  Memory  of  an 
Unfortunate  Lady 

VV7HAT  beck'ning  ghost,  along  the  moonlight  shade 

Invites  my  steps,  and  points  to  yonder  glade  ? 
Tis  she ! — but  why  that  bleeding  bosom  gored, 
Why  dimly  gleams  the  visionary  sword  ? 
O,  ever  beauteous,  ever  friendly  !    tell, 
Is  it,  in  Heav'n,  a  crime  to  love  too  well? 
To  bear  too  tender  or  too  firm  a  heart, 
To  act  a  lover's  or  a  Roman's  part? 
Is  there  no  bright  reversion  in  the  sky 
For  those  who  greatly  think,  or  bravely  die  ? 
504 


ALEXANDER  POPE 

Why  bade  ye  else,  ye  Pow'rs !   her  soul  aspire 
Above  the  vulgar  flight  of  low  desire? 
Ambition  first  sprung  from  your  blest  abodes; 
The  glorious  fault  of  angels  and  of  gods; 
Thence  to  their  images  on  earth  it  flows, 
And  in  the  breasts  of  kings  and  heroes  glowst 
Most  souls,  'tis  true,  but  peep  out  once  an  age, 
Dull  sullen  pris'ners  in  the  body's  cage : 
Dim  lights  of  life,  that  burn  a  length  of  years, 
Useless,  unseen,  as  lamps  in  sepulchres ; 
Like  Eastern  kings  a  lazy  state  they  keep, 
And  close  confined  to  their  own  palace,  sleep. 

From  these  perhaps  (ere  Nature  bade  her  die) 
Fate  snatch'd  her  early  to  the  pitying  sky. 
As  into  air  the  purer  spirits  flow, 
And  sep'rate  from  their  kindred  dregs  below, 
So  flew  the  soul  to  its  congenial  place, 
Nor  left  one  virtue  to  redeem  her  race. 

But  thou,   false  guardian  of  a  charge  too  good ! 
Thou,  mean  deserter  of  thy  brother's  blood ! 
See  on  these  ruby  lips  the  trembling  breath, 
These  cheeks  now  fading  at  the  blast  of  Death : 
Cold  is  that  breast  which  warm'd  the  world  before, 
And  those  love-darting  eyes  must  roll  no  more. 
Thus,   if  eternal  Justice  rules  the  ball, 
Thus  shall  your  wives,  and  thus  your  children  fall ; 
On  all  the  line  a  sudden  vengeance  waits, 
And  frequent  herses  shall  besiege  your  gates. 
There  passengers  shall  stand,  and  pointing  say 
(While  the  long  fun'rals  blacken  all  the  way), 
*  Lo !    these  were  they  whose  souls  the  Furies  steel'd 
And  cursed  with  hearts  unknowing  how  to  yield.' 
Thus  unlamented  pass  the  proud  away, 


ALEXANDER  POPE 

The  gaze  of  fools,   and  pageant  of  a  day  ! 

So  perish  all  whose  breast  ne'er  learn'd  to  glow 

For  others'  good,   or  melt  at  others'  woe ! 

What  can  atone  (O  ever-injured  shade!) 
Thy  fate  unpitied,   and  thy  rites  unpaid  ? 
No  friend's  complaint,  no  kind  domestic  tear 
Pleased  thy  pale  ghost,   or  graced  thy  mournful  bier. 
By  foreign  hands   thy  dying  eyes  were  closed, 
By  foreign  hands  thy  decent  limbs  composed, 
By  foreign  hands  thy  humble  grave  adorn'd, 
By  strangers  honour'd,  and  by  strangers  mourn'd  ! 
What  tho'  no  friends  in  sable  weeds  appear, 
Grieve  for  an  hour,  perhaps,  then  mourn  a  year, 
And  bear  about  the  mockery  of  woe 
To  midnight  dances,   and  the  public  show  ? 
What  tho'  no  weeping  Loves  thy  ashes  grace, 
Nor  polish'd  marble  emulate  thy  face  ? 
What  tho'  no  sacred  earth  allow  thee  room, 
Nor  hallow'd  dirge  be  mutter'd  o'er  thy  tomb: 
Yet  shall  thy  grave  with  rising  flow'rs  be  drest, 
And  the  green  turf  lie  lightly  on  thy  breast: 
There  shall  the  morn  her  earliest  tears  bestow, 
There  the  first  roses  of  the  year  shall  blow  ; 
While  angels  with  their  silver  wings  o'ershade 
The  ground  now  sacred  by  thy  reliques  made. 

So  peaceful  rests,  without  a  stone,  a  name, 
What  once  had  beauty,  titles,  wealth,  and  fame. 
How  loved,  how  honour'd  once,  avails  thee  not, 
To  whom  related,  or  by  whom  begot; 
A  heap  of  dust  alone  remains  of  thee, 
'Tis  all  thou  art,  and  all  the  proud  shall  be ! 

Poets  themselves  must  fall,  like  those  they  sung, 
Deaf  the  praised  ear,  and  mute  the  tuneful  tongue. 
506 


ALEXANDER  POPE 

Ev'n  he,  whose  soul  now  melts  in  mournful  lays, 
Shall  shortly  want  the  gen'rous  tear  he  pays ; 
Then  from  his   closing  eyes  thy  form  shall  part, 
And  the  last  pang  shall  tear  thee  from  his  heart ; 
Life's  idle  business  at  one  gasp  be  o'er, 
The  Muse  forgot,  and  thou  beloved  no  more ! 


442.   The  'Dying  Christian  to  his  Soul 

WITAL  spark  of  heav'nly  flame ! 

Quit,  O   quit  this  mortal  frame : 
Trembling,  hoping,  ling'ring,  flying, 
O  the  pain,   the  bliss  of  dying! 

Cease,  fond  Nature,   cease  thy  strife, 

And  let  me  languish  into  life. 

Hark!    they  whisper;   angels  say, 

Sister  Spirit,  come  away  ! 

What  is  this  absorbs  me  quite  ? 

Steals  my  senses,   shuts  my  sight, 
Drowns  my  spirits,   draws  my  breath  ? 
Tell  me,   my  soul,   can  this  be  death  ? 

The  world  recedes  ;    it  disappears ! 
Heav'n  opens  on  my  eyes !   my  ears 

With  sounds  seraphic  ring  ! 
Lend,  lend  your  wings !    I  mount !    I  fly ! 
O  Grave !    where  is  thy  victory  ? 

O  Death!    where  is  thy  sting? 


SfV 


GEORGE  BUBB  DODINGTON,  LORD 
MELCOMBE 


443.  Shorten  Sail 

1691-1762 

OVE  thy  country,  wish  it  well, 
Not  with  too  intense  a  care; 
"Tis  enough  that,  when  it  fell, 
Thou  its  ruin  didst  not  share. 


L( 


Envy's  censure,  Flattery's  praise, 
With  unmoved  indifference  view : 

Learn  to  tread  Life's  dangerous  maze 
With  unerring  Virtue's  clue. 

Void  of  strong  desire  and  fear, 
Life's  wide  ocean  trust  no  more  j 

Strive  thy  little  bark  to  steer 

With  the  tide,  but  near  the  shore. 

Thus  prepared,  thy  shorten'd  sail 
Shall,  whene'er  the  winds  increase, 

Seizing  each  propitious  gale, 
Waft  thee  to  the  port  of  Peace. 

Keep  thy  conscience  from  offence 
And  tempestuous  passions  free, 

So,  when  thou  art  call'd  from  hence, 
Easy  shall  thy  passage  be. 

— Easy  shall  thy  passage  be, 

Cheerful  thy  allotted  stay, 
Short  the  account  'twixt  God  and  thee, 

Hope  shall  meet  thee  on  thy  way. 


HENRY  CAREY 
Sally  in  our  Alley 

1 693 1- 1 743 

/^~\F  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart 
^-^     There's  none  like  pretty  Sally; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 
There  is  no  lady  in  the  land 

Is  half  so  sweet  as  Sally; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Her  father  he  makes  cabbage-nets, 

And  through  the  streets  does  cry  'em ; 
Her  mother  she  sells  laces  long 

To  such  as  please  to  buy  'em : 
But  sure  such  folks  could  ne'er  beget 

So  sweet  a  girl  as  Sally ! 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  she  is  by,  I  leave  my  work, 

I  love  her  so  sincerely; 
My  master  comes  like  any  Turk, 

And  bangs  me  most  severely: 
But  let  him  bang  his  bellyful, 

I'll  bear  it  all  for  Sally; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Of  all  the  days  that's  in  the  week 

I  dearly  love  but  one  day — 
And  that's  the  day  that  comes  betwixt 

A  Saturday  and  Monday; 

509 


HENRY  CAREY 

For  then  I'm  drest  all  in  my  besf 
To  walk  abroad  with  Sally; 

She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 
And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

My  master  carries  me  to  church, 

And  often  am  I  blamed 
Because  I  leave  him  in  the  lurch 

As  soon  as  text  is  named  ; 
I  leave  the  church  in  sermon-time 

And  slink  away  to  Sally ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  Christmas  comes  about  again, 

O,  then  I  shall  have  money  ; 
I'll  hoard  it  up,  and  box  it  all, 

I'll  give  it  to  my  honey  : 
I  would  it  were  ten  thousand  pound, 

I'd  give  it  all  to  Sally; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

My  master  and  the  neighbours  all 

Make  game  of  me  and  Sally, 
And,  but  for  her,   I'd  better  be 

A  slave  and  row  a  galley ; 
But  when  my  seven  long  years  are  out, 

O,  then  I'll  marry  Sally; 
O,  then  we'll  wed,  and  then  we'll  bed- 

But  not  in  our  alley! 


HENRY  CAREY 
f.  A  T)  rink  ing  Song 

"D  ACCHUS  must  now  his  power  resign- 

*•*     I  am  the  only  God  of  Wine! 

It  is  not  fit  the  wretch  should  be 

In  competition  set  with  me, 

Who  can  drink  ten  times  more  than  he. 

Make  a  new  world,  ye  powers  divine! 
Stock'd  with  nothing  else  but  Wine: 
Let  Wine  its  only  product  be, 
Let  Wine  be  earth,  and  air,  and  sea — 
And  let  that  Wine  be  all  for  me  I 


WILLIAM  BROOME 

446.  The  Rosebud 

? -1745 
EEN  of  fragrance,  lovely  Rose, 

The  beauties  of  thy  leaves  disclose  I 
— But  thou,  fair  Nymph,  thyself  survey 
In  this  sweet  offspring  of  a  day. 
That  miracle  of  face  must  fail, 
Thy  charms  are  sweet,  but  charms  are  frail : 
Swift  as  the  short-lived  flower  they  fly, 
At  morn  they  bloom,  at  evening  die : 
Though  Sickness  yet  a  while  forbears, 
Yet  Time  destroys  what  Sickness  spares : 
Now  Helen  lives  alone  in  fame, 
And  Cleopatra 's  but  a  name : 
Time  must  indent  that  heavenly  brow, 
And  thou  must  be  what  they  are  now. 


WILLIAM  BROOME 
447.    Belinda  s  Recovery  from  Sickness 

"THUS  when  the  silent  grave  becomes 
•*•       Pregnant  with  life  as  fruitful  wombs; 
When  the  wide  seas  and  spacious  earth 

Resign  us  to  our  second  birth ; 
Our  moulder'd  frame  rebuilt  assumes 
New  beauty,  and  for  ever  blooms, 
And,  crown'd  with  youth's  immortal  pride, 
We  angels  rise,  who  mortals  died. 


JAMES  THOMSON 

4#.  On  the  1)eath  of  a  particular  Friend 

1700-1748 

AS  those  we  love  decay,  we  die  in  part, 
•*^     String  after  string  is  sever'd  from  the  heart ; 
Till  loosen'd  life,  at  last  but  breathing  clay, 
Without  one  pang  is  glad  to  fall  away. 

Unhappy  he  who  latest  feels  the  blow! 
Whose  eyes  have  wept  o'er  every  friend  laid  low, 
Dragg'd  ling'ring  on  from  partial  death  to  death, 
Till,  dying,  all  he  can  resign  is — breath. 


GEORGE  LYTTELTON,  LORD  LYTTELTON 

44^.  Tell  me,  my  Heart,  if  this  be  Love 

1709-1773 

VW"HEN  Delia  on  the  plain  appears, 

^^       Awed  by  a  thousand  tender  fears 
I  would  approach,  but  dare  not  move: 
Tell  me,  my  heart,  if  this  be  love? 
5" 


LORD  LYTTELTON 

Whene'er  she  speaks,  my  ravish'd  ear 
No  other  voice  than  hers  can  hear, 
No  other  wit  but  hers  approve: 
Tell  me,  my  heart,  if  this  be  love? 

If  she  some  other  youth  commend, 
Though  I  was  once  his  fondest  friend, 
His  instant  enemy  I  prove : 
Tell  me,  my  heart,  if  this  be  love? 

When  she  is  absent,   I  no  more 
Delight  in  all  that  pleased  before — 
The  clearest  spring,  or  shadiest  grove : 
Tell  me,  my  heart,  if  this  be  love  ? 

When  fond  of  power,  of  beauty  vain, 
Her  nets  she  spread  for  every  swain, 
I  strove  to  hate,  but  vainly  strove: 
Tell  me,  my  heart,  if  this  be  love? 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

One-and-Twenty 

1509-1784 

TONG-EXPECTED  One-and-twenty, 
•*-*    Ling'ring  year,  at  length  is  flown: 
Pride  and  pleasure,  pomp  and  plenty, 

Great  *  *  *,  are  now  your  own. 

Loosen'd  from  the  minor's  tether, 

Free  to  mortgage  or  to  sell, 
Wild  as  wind  and  light  as  feather, 

Bid  the  sons  of  thrift  farewell. 

s  5«3 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

Call  the  Betsies,   Kates,  and  Jennies, 
All  the  names  that  banish  care; 

Lavish  of  your  grandsire's  guineas, 
Show  the  spirit  of  an  heir. 

All  that  prey  on  vice  and  folly 
Joy  to  see  their  quarry  fly : 

There  the  gamester,  light  and  jolly, 
There  the  lender,  grave  and  sly. 

Wealth,  my  lad,   was  made  to  wander, 

Let  it  wander  as  it  will ; 
Call  the  jockey,  call  the  pander, 

Bid  them  come  and  take  their  fill. 

When  the  bonny  blade  carouses, 
Pockets  full,  and  spirits  high — 

What  are  acres  ?     What  are  houses  ? 
Only  dirt,  or  wet  or  dry. 

Should  the  guardian  friend  or  mother 
Tell  the  woes  of  wilful  waste, 

Scorn  their  counsel,   scorn  their  pother; 
You  can  hang  or  drown  at  last! 


.  On  the  "Death  of  Mr.  Robert  Levet, 
a  Tract  her  in  Thy  sic 

/^ONDEMN'D  to  Hope's  delusive  mine, 
^->     As  on  we  toil  from  day  to  day, 
By  sudden  blasts  or  slow  decline 
Our  social  comforts  drop  away. 
5'4 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

Well  tried  through  many  a  varying  year, 
See  Levet  to  the  grave  descend, 

Officious,   innocent,   sincere, 

Of  ev'ry  friendless  name  the  friend. 

Yet  still  he  fills  affection's  eye, 
Obscurely  wise  and  coarsely  kind; 

Nor,   letter'd  Arrogance,  deny 
Thy  praise  to  merit  unrefined. 

When  fainting  nature  call'd  for  aid, 

And  hov'ring  death  prepared  the  blow, 

His  vig'rous  remedy  display'd 

The  pow'r  of  art  without  the  show. 

In  Misery's  darkest  cavern  known, 

His  useful  care  was  ever  nigh, 
Where  hopeless  Anguish  pour'd  his  groan, 

And  lonely  Want  retired  to  die. 

No  summons  mock'd  by  chill  delay, 
No  petty  gain  disdain'd  by  pride; 

The  modest  wants  of  ev'ry  day 
The  toil  of  ev'ry  day  supplied. 

His  virtues  walk'd  their  narrow  round, 
Nor  made  a  pause,   nor  left  a  void ; 

And  sure  th'   Eternal  Master  found 
The  single  talent  well  employ'd. 

The  busy  day,   the  peaceful  night, 

Unfelt,   uncounted,  glided  by; 
His  frame  was  firm — his  powers  were  bright, 

Though  now  his  eightieth  year  was  nigh. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

Then  with  no  fiery  throbbing  pain, 

No  cold  gradations  of  decay, 
Death  broke  at  once  the  vital  chain, 

And  freed  his  soul  the  nearest  way. 

RICHARD  JAGO 
4?2.  Absence 

YV7ITH  leaden  foot  Time  creeps  along 

W      While  Delia  is  away: 
With  her,   nor  plaintive  was  the  song. 
Nor  tedious  was  the  day. 

Ah,  envious  Pow'r !    reverse  my  doom ; 

Now  double  thy  career, 
Strain  ev'ry  nerve,  stretch  ev'ry  plume, 

And  rest  them  when  she 's  here ! 

THOMAS  GRAY 

4^3.     Elegy  written  in  a  Country 

Churchyard 

1716-1771 

"THE  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
•1       The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 
The  plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds: 
5«6 


THOMAS  GRAY 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tow'r 

The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wand'ring  near  her  secret  bow'r, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mould'ring  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid, 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 

The  swallow  twitt'ring  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care: 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke: 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield ! 

How  bow'd  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke. 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,   and  destiny  obscure ; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  pow'r, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Await  alike  th'  inevitable  hour: 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 


THOMAS  GRAY 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault 
If  Memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 

Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 
Can  Honour's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 

Or  Flatt'ry  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death  ? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire ; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  sway'd, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne'er  unroll ; 

Chill  Penury  repress'd  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark  unfathom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear : 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden  that  with  dauntless  breast 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 

Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 

Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

Th'  applause  of  list'ning  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes — 
5»8 


THOMAS  GRAY 

Their  lot  forbade:    nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined; 

Forbade  to  wade  thro'  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learn'd  to  stray ; 

Along  the  cool,   sequester'd  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  ev'n  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect 
Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  deck'd, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  th'  unletter'd  Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply : 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,   to  dumb  Forgetfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resign'd, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing  ling'ring  look  behind  ? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires  5 

E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

5'9 


THOMAS  GRAY 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  th*  unhonour'd  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate; 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate — 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 

'  Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

'  There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

'  Hard  by  yon  wood,   now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Mutt'ring  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove, 

Now  drooping,  woeful-wan,  like  one  forlorn, 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  cross'd  in  hopeless  love. 

1  One  morn  I  miss'd  him  on  the  custom'd  hill, 

Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favourite  tree ; 

Another  came ;    nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he: 

'The  next  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him  borne. 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 

Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn : ' 

THE  EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth 
A  Touth,  to  Fortune  and  to  Fame  unknown. 

Fair  Science  frown' d  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 


THOMAS  GRAY 

Largi  -was  his  bounty,   and  his  soul  sincere, 

Heav'n  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send : 
He  gave  to  Mis'ry  all  he  had,  a  tear, 

He  gain' d  from  Heav'n  ('twas  all  he  <wisb'd)  a  friend. 
No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 
(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,} 

The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

4/4.        The  Curse  upon  Edward 


the  warp,  and  weave  the  woof, 
The  winding-sheet  of  Edward's  race. 
Give  ample  room,  and  verge  enough 
The  characters  of  hell  to  trace. 
Mark  the  year,  and  mark  the  night, 
When  Severn  shall  re-echo  with  affright 
The  shrieks  of  death,  thro'  Berkley's  roofs  that  ring, 
Shrieks  of  an  agonizing  King ! 

She-wolf  of  France,   with  unrelenting  fangs, 
That  tear'st  the  bowels  of  thy  mangled  mate, 

From  thee  be  born,  who  o'er  thy  country  hangs 
The  scourge  of  Heav'n.     What  terrors  round  him  wait 
Amazement  in  his  van,  with  Flight  combined, 
And  Sorrow's  faded  form,  and  Solitude  behind. 

Mighty  Victor,  mighty  Lord! 
Low  on  his  funeral  couch  he  lies! 
No  pitying  heart,   no  eye,  afford 
A  tear  to  grace  his  obsequies. 
Is  the  sable  warrior  fled? 
Thy  son  is  gone.     He  rests  among  the  dead. 

S3 


THOMAS  GRAY 

The  swarm  that  in  thy  noon  tide  beam  were  born  ? 

Gone  to  salute  the  rising  morn. 

Fair  laughs  the  morn,  and  soft  the  zephyr  blows, 

While  proudly  riding  o'er  the  azure  realm 

In  gallant  trim  the  gilded  vessel  goes; 

Youth  on  the  prow,  and  Pleasure  at  the  helm; 
Regardless  of  the  sweeping  whirlwind's  sway, 
That,  hush'd  in  grim  repose,  expects  his  evening  prey. 

Fill  high  the  sparkling  bowl, 
The  rich  repast  prepare ; 

Reft  of  a  crown,   he  yet  may  share  the  feast : 
Close  by  the  regal  chair 

Fell  Thirst  and  Famine  scowl 

A  baleful  smile  upon  their  baffled  guest. 
Heard  ye  the  din  of  battle  bray, 

Lance  to  lance,  and  horse  to  horse  ? 

Long  years  of  havoc  urge  their  destined  course, 
And  thro'  the  kindred  squadrons  mow  their  way. 

Ye  Towers  of  Julius,   London's  lasting  shame, 
With  many  a  foul  and  midnight  murder  fed, 

Revere  his  consort's  faith,  his  father's  fame, 
And  spare  the  meek  usurper's  holy  head. 
Above,   below,  the  rose  of  snow, 

Twined  with  her  blushing  foe,  we  spread : 
The  bristled  boar  in  infant-gore 

Wallows  beneath  the  thorny  shade. 
Now,  brothers,   bending  o'er  th*  accursed  loom 
Stamp  we  our  vengeance  deep,  and  ratify  his  doom. 

Edward,  lo  !   to  sudden  fate 
(Weave  we  the  woof.     The  thread  is  spun) 

Half  of  thy  heart  we  consecrate. 
(The  web  is  wove.     The  work  is  done.) 
5" 


THOMAS  GRAY 
The  Progress  of  Poesy 

A    PINDARIC    ODE 

MVAKE,  ^Rolian  lyre,  awake, 

And  give  to  rapture  all  thy  trembling  strings, 
From  Helicon's  harmonious  springs 

A  thousand  rills  their  mazy  progress  take: 
The  laughing  flowers,  that  round  them  blow, 
Drink  life  and  fragrance  as  they  flow. 
Now  the  rich  stream  of  music  winds  along 
Deep,  majestic,   smooth  and  strong, 
Thro'  verdant  vales,  and  Ceres'  golden  reign: 
Now  rolling  down  the  steep  amain, 
Headlong,  impetuous,  see  it  pour; 
The  rocks  and  nodding  groves  rebellow  to  the  roar, 

O  Sovereign  of  the  willing  soul, 
Parent  of  sweet  and  solemn-breathing  airs, 
Enchanting  shell  1    the  sullen  Cares 

And  frantic  Passions  hear  thy  soft  controul. 
On  Thracia's  hills  the  Lord  of  War 
Has  curb'd  the  fury  of  his  car, 
And  dropp'd  his  thirsty  lance  at  thy  command. 
Perching  on  the  sceptred  hand 
Of  Jove,  thy  magic  lulls  the  feather'd  king 
With  ruffled  plumes  and  flagging  wing : 
Quench'd  in  dark  clouds  of  slumber  lie 
The  terror  of  his  beak,   and  lightnings  of  his  eye. 

Thee  the  voice,  the  dance,  obey, 
Temper'd  to  thy  warbled  lay. 

O'er  Idalia's  velvet-green 

The  rosy-crowned  Loves  are  seen 

5*3 


THOMAS  GRAY 

On  Cytherea's  day 

With  antic  Sports,  and  blue-eyed  Pleasures, 

Frisking  light  in  frolic  measures; 
Now  pursuing,  now  retreating, 

Now  in  circling  troops  they  meet : 
To  brisk  notes  in  cadence  beating, 

Glance  their  many-twinkling  feet. 
Slow  melting  strains  their  Queen's  approach  declare: 

Where'er  she  turns  the  Graces  homage  pay. 
With  arms  sublime,  that  float  upon  the  air, 

In  gliding  state  she  wins  her  easy  way: 
O'er  her  warm  cheek  and  rising  bosom  move 
The  bloom  of  young  Desire  and  purple  light  of  Love. 

Man's  feeble  race  what  ills  await, 

Labour,  and  Penury,  the  racks  of  Pain, 
Disease,  and  Sorrow's  weeping  train, 
And  Death,  sad  refuge  from  the  storms  of  fatel 

The  fond  complaint,  my  song,  disprove, 

And  justify  the  laws  of  Jove. 

Say,  has  he  giv'n  in  vain  the  heav'nly  Muse  ? 

Night,  and  all  her  sickly  dews, 

Her  spectres  wan,  and  birds  of  boding  cry, 

He  gives  to  range  the  dreary  sky : 

Till  down  the  eastern  cliffs  afar 

Hyperion's  march  they  spy,  and  glitt'ring  shafts  of  war. 

In  climes  beyond  the  solar  road, 
Where  shaggy  forms  o'er  ice-built  mountains  roam, 
The  Muse  has  broke  the  twilight  gloom 

To  cheer  the  shiv'ring  native's  dull  abode. 
And  oft,  beneath  the  od'rous  shade 
Of  Chili's  boundless  forests  laid, 
She  deigns  to  hear  the  savage  youth  repeat 
5*4 


THOMAS  GRAY 

In  loose  numbers  wildly  sweet 

Their  feather-cinctured  chiefs,  and  dusky  loves. 

Her  track,   where'er  the  Goddess  roves, 

Glory  pursue  and  generous  Shame, 

Th'  unconquerable  Mind,  and  Freedom's  holy  flame. 

Woods,  that  wave  o'er  Delphi's  steep, 
Isles,  that  crown  th'  ^Egean  deep, 

Fields,  that  cool  Ilissus  laves, 

Or  where  Maeander's  amber  waves 
In  lingering  lab'rinths  creep, 

How  do  your  tuneful  echoes  languish, 

Mute,  but  to  the  voice  of  anguish  ? 
Where  each  old  poetic  mountain 

Inspiration  breathed  around : 
Ev'ry  shade  and  hallow'd  fountain 

Murmur'd  deep  a  solemn  sound : 
Till  the  sad  Nine,  in  Greece's  evil  hour, 

Left  their  Parnassus  for  the  Latian  plains. 
Alike  they  scorn  the  pomp  of  tyrant  Power, 

And  coward  Vice,  that  revels  in  her  chains. 
When  Latium  had  her  lofty  spirit  lost, 
They  sought,   O  Albion  !    next  thy  sea-encircled  coast. 

Far  from  the  sun  and  summer  gale, 
In  thy  green  lap  was  Nature's  darling  laid, 
What  time,  where  lucid  Avon  stray'd, 

To  Him  the  mighty  mother  did  unveil 
Her  awful  face:     the  dauntless  child 
Stretch'd  forth  his  little  arms,  and  smiled. 
This  pencil  take  (she  said),  whose  colours  clear 
Richly  paint  the  vernal  year : 
Thine  too  these  golden  keys,  immoital  boy  ! 
This  can  unlock  the  gates  of  joy ; 

5*5 


THOMAS  GRAY 

Of  horror  that,  and  thrilling  fears, 

Or  ope  the  sacred  source  of  sympathetic  tears. 

Nor  second  he,  that  rode  sublime 
Upon  the  seraph-wings  of  Ecstasy, 
The  secrets  of  th'  abyss  to  spy. 

He  pass'd  the  flaming  bounds  of  place  and  time: 
The  living  Throne,   the  sapphire-blaze, 
Where  Angels  tremble  while  they  gaze, 
He  saw  ;    but  blasted  with  excess  of  light, 
Closed  his  eyes  in  endless  night. 
Behold,  where  Dryden's  less  presumptuous  car, 
Wide  o'er  the  fields  of  glory  bear 
Two  coursers  of  ethereal  race, 
With  necks  in  thunder  clothed,  and   long-resounding  pace. 

Hark,  his  hands  the  lyre  explore! 
Bright-eyed   Fancy  hovering  o'er 

Scatters  from  her  pictured  urn 

Thoughts  that  breathe,  and  words  that  burn. 
But  ah  !    'tis  heard  no  more 

O   Lyre  divine !     what  daring  Spirit 

Wakes  thee  now  ?   Tho'  he  inherit 
Nor  the  pride,  nor  ample  pinion, 

That  the  Theban  eagle  bear 
Sailing  with  supreme  dominion 

Thro'  the  azure  deep  of  air: 
Yet  oft  before  his  infant  eyes  would  run 

Such  forms  as  glitter  in  the  Muse's  ray, 
With  orient  hues,   unborrow'd  of  the  Sun : 

Yet  shall  he  mount,  and  keep  his  distant  way 
Beyond  the  limits  of  a  vulgar  fate, 
Beneath  the  Good  how  far — but  far  above  the  Great. 
526 


THOMAS  GRAY 


tf.   On  a  Favourite  Cat,  Drowned  in 
Tub  of  Gold  Fishes 

"'TWAS  on  a  lofty  vase's  side, 
•*•     Where  China's  gayest  art  had  dyed 

The  azure  flowers  that  blow; 
Demurest  of  the  tabby  kind, 
The  pensive  Selima  reclined, 

Gazed  on  the  lake  below. 

Her  conscious  tail  her  joy  declared; 
The  fair  round  face,  the  snowy  beard, 

The  velvet  of  her  paws, 
Her  coat,  that  with  the  tortoise  vies, 
Her  ears  of  jet,   and  emerald  eyes, 

She  saw ;    and  purr'd  applause. 

Still  had  she  gazed ;    but  'midst  the  tide 
Two  angel  forms  were  seen  to  glide, 

The  Genii  of  the  stream  : 
Their  scaly  armour's  Tyrian  hue 
Thro'  richest  purple  to  the  view 

Betray'd  a  golden  gleam. 

The  hapless  Nymph  with  wonder  saw : 
A  whisker  first  and  then  a  claw. 

With  many  an  ardent  wish, 
She  stretch'd  in  vain  to  reach  the  prize. 
What  female  heart  can  gold  despise? 

What  Cat 's  averse  to  fish  ? 

527 


THOMAS  GRAY 

Presumptuous  Maid  !    with  looks  intent 
Again  she  stretch'd,  again  she  bent, 

Nor  knew  the  gulf  between. 
(Malignant  Fate  sat  by,  and  smiled.) 
The  slipp'ry  verge  her  feet  beguiled, 

She  tumbled  headlong  in. 

Eight  times  emerging  from  the  flood 
She  mew'd  to  ev'ry  wat'ry  god, 

Some  speedy  aid  to  send. 
No  Dolphin  came,  no  Nereid  stirr'd  : 
Nor  cruel  Tom,  nor  Susan  heard. 

A  Fav'rite  has  no  friend ! 

From  hence,  ye  Beauties,  undeceived, 
Know,  one  false  step  is  ne'er  retrieved. 

And  be  with  caution  bold. 
Not  all  that  tempts  your  wand'ring  eyes 
And  heedless  hearts,  is  lawful  prize; 

Nor  all  that  glisters,  gold. 


WILLIAM  COLLINS 

477.  Ode  to  Simplicity 

1721-1759 

(~\  THOU,  by  Nature  taught 

^— ^     To  breathe  her  genuine  thought 
In  numbers  warmly  pure  and   sweetly  strong : 

Who  first  on  mountains  wild, 

In  Fancy,  loveliest  child, 
Thy  babe  and  Pleasure's,  nursed  the  pow'rs  of  song ! 


WILLIAM  COLLINS 

Thou,  who  with  hermit  heart 

Disdain'st  the  wealth  of  art, 
And  gauds,  and  pageant  weeds,  and  trailing  pall : 

But  com'st  a  decent  maid, 

In  Attic  robe  array'd, 
O  chaste,  unboastful  nymph,   to  thee  I  call! 

By  all  the  honey'd  store 

On  Hybla's  thymy  shore, 
By  all  her  blooms  and  mingled  murmurs  dear, 

By  her  whose  love-lorn  woe, 

In  evening  musings  slow, 
Soothed  sweetly  sad  Electra's  poet's  ear : 

By  old  Cephisus  deep, 

Who  spread  his  wavy  sweep 
In  warbled  wand'rings  round  thy  gieen  retreat; 

On  whose  enamell'd  side, 

When  holy  Freedom  died, 
No  equal  haunt  allured  thy  future  feet ! 

O  sister  meek  of  Truth, 

To  my  admiring  youth 
Thy  sober  aid  and  native  charms  infuse ! 

The  flow'rs  that  sweetest  breathe, 

Though  beauty  cull'd  the  wreath, 
Still  ask  thy  hand  to  range  their  order'd  hues. 

While  Rome  could  none  esteem, 

But  virtue's  patriot  theme, 
You  loved  her  hills,  and  led  her  laureate  band  ; 

But  stay'd  to  sing  alone 

To  one  distinguish'd  throne, 
And  turn'd  thy  face,  and  fled  her  alter'd  land. 


WILLIAM  COLLINS 

No  more,  in  hall  or  bow'r, 

The  passions  own  thy  pow'r. 
Love,  only  Love  her  forceless  numbers  mean ; 

For  thou  hast  left  her  shrine, 

Nor  olive  more,  nor  vine, 
Shall  gain  thy  feet  to  bless  the  servile  scene. 

Though  taste,  though  genius  bless 

To  some  divine  excess, 
Faint's  the  cold  work  till  thou  inspire  the  whole 

What  each,  what  all  supply, 

May  court,  may  charm  our  eye, 
Thou,  only  thou,  canst  raise  the  meeting  soul ! 

Of  these  let  others  ask, 

To  aid  some  mighty  task, 
I  only  seek  to  find  thy  temperate  vale ; 

Where  oft  my  reed  might  sound 

To  maids  and  shepherds  round, 
And  all  thy  sons,   O  Nature,  learn  my  tale. 

?8.  How  sleep  the  Brave 

T_JOW  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to   rest 
*•  *•      By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest ! 
When  Spring,   with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallow'd  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter   sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 
By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung ; 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung ; 
There  Honour  comes,  a  pilgrim  grey, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair 
To  dwell,  a  weeping   hermit,  there! 
530 


WILLIAM  COLLINS 


4/p.  Ode  to  Evening 

TF  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song, 

May  hope,  chaste  Eve,  to  soothe  thy  modest  ear, 
Like  thy  own  solemn  springs, 
Thy  springs  and  dying  gales  ; 

O   nymph  reserved,   while  now  the  bright-hair'd  sun 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,   whose  cloudy  skirts, 

With  brede  ethereal  wove, 

O'erhang  his  wavy  bed: 

Now  air  is  hush'd,  save  where  the  weak-eyed  bat 
With  short  shrill  shriek  flits  by  on  leathern  wing, 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 

His  small  but  sullen  horn, 

As  oft  he  rises,   'midst  the  twilight  path 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum  : 

Now  teach  me,   maid  composed, 

To  breathe  some  soften'd  strain, 

Whose  numbers,  stealing  through  thy  darkening  vale, 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit, 

As,  musing  slow,   I  hail 

Thy  genial  loved  return ! 

For  when  thy  folding-star  arising  shows 
His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp 

The  fragrant  hours,  and  elves 

Who  slept  in  buds  the  day, 


WILLIAM  COLLINS 

And  many  a  nymph  who  wreathes  her  brows  with  sedge, 
And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  lovelier  still, 

The  pensive  pleasures  sweet, 

Prepare  thy  shadowy  car: 

Then  lead,  calm  votaress,   where  some  sheety  lake 
Cheers  the  lone  heath,  or  some  time-hallow'd  pile, 

Or  upland  fallows  grey 

Reflect  its  last  cool  gleam. 

Or  if  chill  blustering  winds,  or  driving  rain, 
Prevent  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut 

That  from  the  mountain's  side 

Views  wilds  and  swelling  floods, 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discover'd  spires, 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o'er  all 

Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 

The  gradual  dusky  veil. 

While  Spring  shall  pour  his  show'rs,  as  oft  he  wont, 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  Eve  1 

While  Summer  loves  to  sport 

Beneath  thy  lingering  light; 

While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves, 
Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous  air, 

Affrights  thy  shrinking  train, 

And  rudely  rends  thy  robes : 

So  long,   regardful  of  thy  quiet  rule, 

Shall  Fancy,   Friendship,   Science,  rose-lipp'd  Health, 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own, 

And  hymn  thy  favourite  name ! 


WILLIAM  COLLINS 


460.  Fidele 

"TO  fair  Fidele's  grassy  tomb 

Soft  maids  and  village  hinds  shall  bring 
Each  opening  sweet  of  earliest  bloom, 
And  rifle  all  the  breathing  Spring. 

No  wailing  ghost  shall  dare  appear 

To  vex  with  shrieks  this  quiet  grove; 

But  shepherd  lads  assemble  here, 
And  melting  virgins  own  their  love. 

No  wither'd  witch  shall  here  be  seen, 
No  goblins  lead  their  nightly  crew  ; 

The  female  fays  shall  haunt  the  green, 
And  dress  thy  grave  with  pearly  dew. 

The  redbreast  oft  at  evening  hours 
Shall  kindly  lend  his  little  aid, 

With  hoary  moss,  and  gather'd  flowers, 
To  deck  the  ground  where  thou  art  laid 

When  howling  winds,   and  beating  rain, 

In  tempests  shake  thy  sylvan  cell ; 
Or  'midst  the  chase,  on  every  plain, 

The  tender  thought  on  thee  shall  dwell ; 

* 

Each  lonely  scene  shall  thee  restore, 
For  thee  the  tear  be  duly  shed; 

Beloved,  till  life  can  charm  no  more; 
And  mourn'd,  till  Pity's  self  be  dead. 


533 


I 


MARK  AKENSIDE 
461.  Amoret  I72IM770 

F  rightly  tuneful  bards  decide, 

If  it  be  fix'd  in  Love's  decrees, 
That  Beauty  ought  not  to  be  tried 

But  by  its  native  power  to  please, 
Then  tell  me,  youths  and  lovers,  tell — 
What  fair  can  Amoret  excel  ? 

Behold  that  bright  unsullied  smile, 
And  wisdom  speaking  in  her  mien: 

Yet — she  so  artless  all  the  while, 
So  little  studious  to  be  seen — 

We  naught  but  instant  gladness  know, 

Nor  think  to  whom  the  gift  we  owe. 

But  neither  music,  nor  the  powers 
Of  youth  and  mirth  and  frolic  cheer, 

Add  half  the  sunshine  to  the  hours, 
Or  make  life's  prospect  half  so  clear. 

As  memory  brings  it  to  the  eye 

From  scenes  where  Amoret  was  by. 

This,   sure,   is  Beauty's  happiest  part ; 

This  gives  the  most  unbounded   sway  j 
This  shall  enchant  the   subject  heart 

When  rose  and  lily  fade  away; 
And   she  be  still,  in  spite  of  Time, 
Sweet  Amoret  in  all  her  prime. 


MARK  AKENSIDE 

462.  The  Complaint 

AWAY!   away! 
**     Tempt  me  no  more,  insidious  Love; 

Thy  soothing  sway 
Long  did  my  youthful  bosom  prove : 
At  length  thy  treason  is  discern'd, 
At  length  some  dear-bought  caution  earn'd: 
Away !    nor  hope  my  riper  age  to  move. 

I  know,   I  see 
Her  merit.     Needs  it  now  be  shown, 

Alas  !    to  me  ? 

How  often,  to  myself  unknown, 
The  graceful,  gentle,  virtuous  maid 
Have  I  admired !      How  often  said — 
What  joy  to  call  a  heart  like  hers  one's  own ! 

But,  flattering  god, 
O  squanderer  of  content  and  ease, 

In  thy  abode 

Will  care's  rude  lesson  learn  to  please? 
O  say,  deceiver,  hast  thou  won 
Proud  Fortune  to  attend  thy  throne, 
Or  placed  thy  friends  above  her  stern  decrees? 

4<fj.  The  Nightingale 

•"TO  -NIGHT  retired,  the  queen  of  heaven 
•*•       With  young  Endymion  stays; 
And  now  to  Hesper  it  is  given 
Awhile  to  rule  the  vacant  sky, 
Till  she  shall  to  her  lamp  supply 
A  stream  of  brighter  rays. 


MARK  AKENSIDE 

Propitious  send  thy  golden  ray, 

Thou  purest  light  above ! 
Let  no  false  flame  seduce  to  stray 
Where  gulf  or  steep  He  hid  for  harm; 
But  lead  where  music's  healing  charm 

May  soothe  afflicted  love. 

To  them,  by  many  a  grateful  song 

In  happier  seasons  vow'd, 
These  lawns,  Olympia's  haunts,  belong : 
Oft  by  yon  silver  stream  we  walk'd, 
Or  fix'd,  while  Philomela  talk'd, 
Beneath  yon  copses  stood. 

Nor  seldom,  where  the  beechen  boughs 

That  roofless  tower  invade, 
We  came,  while  her  enchanting  Muse 
The  radiant  moon  above  us  held : 
Till,   by  a  clamorous  owl  compell'd, 

She  fled  the  solemn  shade. 

But  hark !     I  hear  her  liquid  tone ! 

Now  Hesper  guide  my  feet ! 
Down  the  red  marl  with  moss  o'ergrown, 
Through  yon  wild  thicket  next  the  plain, 
Whose  hawthorns  choke  the  winding  lane 

Which  leads  to  her  retreat. 

See  the  green  space :    on  either  hand 

Enlarged  it  spreads  around : 
See,  in  the  midst  she  takes  her  stand, 
Where  one  old  oak  his  awful  shade 
Extends  o'er  half  the  level  mead, 

Enclosed  in  woods   profound. 
536 


MARK  AKENSIDE 

Hark !    how  through  many  a  melting  note 

She  now  prolongs  her  lays : 
How  sweetly  down  the  void  they  float ! 
The  breeze  their  magic  path  attends; 
The  stars  shine  out;   the  forest  bends; 

The  wakeful  heifers  graze. 

Whoe'er  thou  art  whom  chance  may  bring 

To  this  sequester'd  spot, 
If  then  the  plaintive  Siren  sing, 
O  softly  tread  beneath  her  bower 
And  think  of  Heaven's  disposing  power, 

Of  man's  uncertain  lot. 

O  think,  o'er  all  this  mortal  stage 

What  mournful  scenes  arise : 
What  ruin  waits  on  kingly  rage; 
How  often  virtue  dwells  with  woe ; 
How  many  griefs  from  knowledge  flow ; 

How  swiftly  pleasure  flies ! 

O  sacred  bird !    let  me  at  eve, 

Thus  wandering  all  alone, 
Thy  tender  counsel  oft  receive, 
Bear  witness  to  thy  pensive  airs, 
And  pity  Nature's  common  cares. 

Till  I  forget  my  own. 


TOBIAS  GEORGE  SMOLLETT 

.  To  Leven  Water 

17*1-1771 

DUKE  stream,  in  whose  transparent  wave 
*•        My  youthful  limbs  I  wont  to  lave ; 
No  torrents  stain  thy  limpid  source, 
No  rocks  impede  thy  dimpling  course  .      . 
Devolving  from  thy  parent  lake 
A  charming  maze  thy  waters  make 
By  bowers  of  birch  and  groves  of  pine 
And  edges  flower'd  with  eglantine. 

Still  on  thy  banks  so  gaily  green 
May  numerous  herds  and  flocks  be  seen, 
And  lasses  chanting  o'er  the  pail, 
And  shepherds   piping  in  the  dale, 
And  ancient  faith  that  knows  no  guile, 
And  industry  embrown'd  with  toil, 
And  hearts  resolved  and  hands  prepared 
The  blessings  they  enjoy  to  guard. 


CHRISTOPHER  SMART 
46?.  Song  to   7) avid 

1732-1770 

SUBLIME — invention  ever  young, 
Of  vast  conception,  tow'ring  tongue 
To  God  th'  eternal  theme ; 
Notes  from  yon  exaltations  caught, 
Unrivall'd  royalty  of  thought 

O'er  meaner  strains  supreme, 
538 


CHRISTOPHER  SMART 

His  muse,  bright  angel  of  his  verse, 
Gives  balm  for  all  the  thorns  that  pierce, 

For  all  the  pangs  that  rage; 
Blest  light  still  gaining  on  the  gloom, 
The  more  than  Michal  of  his  bloom, 

Th'  Abishag  of  his  age. 

He  sang  of  God — the  mighty  source 
Of  all  things — the  stupendous  force 

On  which  all   strength  depends ; 
From  whose  right  arm,   beneath  whose  eyes, 
All  period,  power,   and  enterprise 

Commences,   reigns,  and  ends. 

Tell  them,   I  AM,  Jehovah  said 

To  Moses  ;    while  earth  heard  in  dread, 

And,  smitten  to  the  heart, 
At  once  above,  beneath,  around, 
All  Nature,  without  voice  or  sound, 

Replied,  O  LORD,  THOU  ART. 

The  world,  the  clustering  spheres,   He  made ; 
The  glorious  light,   the  soothing  shade, 

Dale,  champaign,  grove,  and  hill ; 
The  multitudinous  abyss, 
Where  Secrecy  remains  in  bliss, 

And  Wisdom  hides  her   skill. 

The  pillars  of  the  Lord  are   seven, 

Which  stand  from  earth  to  topmost  heaven ; 

His  Wisdom  drew  the  plan ; 
His  Word  accomplished  the  design, 
From  brightest  gem  to  deepest  mine; 

From  Christ  enthroned,  to  Man. 

539 


CHRISTOPHER  SMART 

For  Adoration  all  the  ranks 
Of  Angels  yield  eternal  thanks, 

And  David  in  the  midst; 
With  God's  good  poor,  which,  last  and  least 
In  man's  esteem,  Thou  to  Thy  feast, 

O  blessed  Bridegroom,  bidd'stl 

For  Adoration,  David's  Psalms 
Lift  up  the  heart  to  deeds  of  alms; 

And  he,  who  kneels  and  chants, 
Prevails  his  passions  to  control, 
Finds  meat  and  medicine  to  the  soul, 
Which  for  translation  pants. 

For  Adoration,   in  the  dome 

Of  Christ,   the  sparrows  find  a  home, 

And  on  His  olives  perch  : 
The  swallow  also  dwells  with   thee, 
O  man  of  God's  humility, 

Within  his  Saviour's  church. 

Sweet  is  the  dew  that  falls  betimes, 
And  drops  upon  the  leafy  limes; 

Sweet,  Hermon's  fragrant  air: 
Sweet  is  the  lily's  silver  bell, 
And  sweet  the  wakeful  tapers'  smell 

That  watch  for  early  prayer. 

Sweet  the  young  nurse,  with  love  intense, 
Which  smiles  o'er  sleeping  innocence; 

Sweet,  when  the  lost  arrive: 
Sweet  the  musician's  ardour  beats, 
While  his  vague  mind 's  in  quest  of  sweets, 

The  choicest  flowers  to  hive. 


CHRISTOPHER  SMART 

Strong  is  the  horse  upon  his  speed; 
Strong  in  pursuit  the  rapid  glede, 

Which  makes  at  once  his  game: 
Strong  the  tall  ostrich  on  the  ground; 
Strong  through  the  turbulent  profound 

Shoots  Xiphias  to  his  aim. 

Strong  is  the  lion — like  a  coal 
His  eyeball, — like  a  bastion's  mole 

His  chest  against  the  foes: 
Strong  the  gier-eagle  on  his  sail; 
Strong  against  tide  th'  enormous  whale 

Emerges  as  he  goes. 

But  stronger  still,  in  earth  and  air, 
And  in  the  sea,  the  man  of  prayer, 

And  far  beneath  the  tide: 
And  in  the  seat  to  faith  assign'd, 
Where  ask  is  have,  where  seek  is  find, 

Where  knock  is  open  wide. 

Precious  the  penitential  tear ; 
And  precious  is  the  sigh  sincere, 

Acceptable  to  God: 
And  precious  are  the  winning  flowers, 
In  gladsome  Israel's  feast  of  bowers 

Bound  on  the  hallow'd  sod. 

Glorious  the  sun  in  mid  career; 
Glorious  th'  assembled  fires  appear; 

Glorious  the  comet's  train: 
Glorious  the  trumpet  and  alarm; 
Glorious  the  Almighty's  stretch'd-out  arm; 

Glorious  th'  enraptured  main : 
glede]  kite.  Xiphias]  sword-fish. 

54i 


CHRISTOPHER  SMART 

Glorious  the  northern  lights  astream  ; 
Glorious  the  song,  when  God's  the  theme; 

Glorious  the  thunder's  roar: 
Glorious  Hosanna  from  the  den ; 
Glorious  the  catholic  Amen  ; 

Glorious  the  martyr's  gore : 

Glorious — more  glorious — is  the  crown 
Of  Him  that  brought  salvation  down, 

By  meekness  call'd  thy  Son: 
Thou  that  stupendous  truth  believed;  — 
And  now  the  matchless  deed's  achieved, 

Determined,   dared,   and  done ! 

JANE  ELLIOT 

466.         <d  Lament  for  Flodcten 

1727-1805 

I'VE  heard  them  lilting  at  our  ewe-milking, 
*•      Lasses  a'  lilting  before  dawn  o'  day; 
But  now  they  are  moaning  on  ilka  green  loaning — 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

At  bughts,  in  the  morning,   nae  blythe  lads  are  scorning, 

Lasses  are  lonely  and  dowie  and  wae  ; 
Nae  daffing,  nae  gabbing,  but  sighing  and  sabbing, 

Ilk  ane  lifts  her  leglin  and  hies  her  away. 

In  har'st,  at  the  shearing,  nae  youths  now  are  jeering, 
Bandsters  are  lyart,  and  runkled,  and  gray : 

At  fair  or  at  preaching,   nae  wooing,   nae  fleeching — 
The  Flowers  of  the   Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

466.  loaning]  lane,  field-track.      wede]  reft.      bughts]  sheep-folds, 
daffing]  joking.  leglin]  milk-pail.  bandsters]  binders, 

lyart]  faded.  fleeching]  coaxing. 

54* 


JANE  ELLIOT 

At  e'en,  in  the  gloaming,   nae  swankies  are  roaming 
'Bout  stacks  wi*  the  lasses  at  bogle  to  play ; 

But  ilk  ane  sits  eerie,  lamenting  her  dearie — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

Dool  and  wae  for  the  order  sent  our  lads  to  the   Border ! 

The  English,   for  ance,   by  guile  wan  the  day ; 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest,  that  fought  aye  the  foremost, 

The  prime  of  our  land,  lie  cauld  in  the  clay. 

We'll  hear  nae  mair  lilting  at  our  ewe-milking ; 

Women  and  bairns  are  heartless  and  wae ; 
Sighing  and  moaning  on  ilka  green  loaning — 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a*  wede  away. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 

^7.  Woman 

1728-1774 
VVTHEN  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly, 

And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray, 
What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy  ? 


The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover, 

To  hide  her  shame  from  ev'ry  eye, 
To  give  repentance  to  her  lover, 

And  wring  his  bosom  is — to  die. 

466.  swankies]  lusty  lads.  bogle]  bogey,  hide-and-seek, 

dool]  mourning. 


5*3 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 

468.  Memory 

MEMORY,  thou  fond  deceiver, 

Still  importunate  and  vain, 
To  former  joys  recurring  ever, 
And  turning  all  the  past  to  pain : 


o 


Thou,  like  the  world,  th'  oppress'd  oppressing, 
Thy  smiles  increase  the  wretch's  woe : 

And  he  who  wants  each  other  blessing 
In  thee  must  ever  find  a  foe. 


ROBERT  CUNNINGHAME-GRAHAM  OF 
GARTMORE 

469.  If  T>oughty  Deeds 

1735-17 

TF  doughty  deeds  my  lady  please, 
*      Right  soon  I'll  mount  my  steed; 
And  strong  his  arm  and  fast  his  seat, 

That  bears  frae  me  the  meed. 
I'll  wear  thy  colours  in  my  cap, 

Thy  picture  in  my  heart; 
And  he  that  bends  not  to  thine  eye 
Shall  rue  it  to  his  smart  1 

Then  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee,    Love ; 

O  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee  ! 
For  thy  dear  sake  nae  care  I'll   take, 
Tho'  ne'er  another  trow  me. 

If  gay  attire  delight  thine  eye 

I'll  dight  me  in  array  ; 
I'll  tend  thy  chamber  door  all  night, 

And  squire  thee  all  the  day. 
544 


ROBERT  CUNN1NGHAME-GRAHAM 

If  sweetest  sounds  can  win  thine  ear, 
These  sounds  I'll  strive  to  catch ; 

Thy  voice  I'll  steal  to  woo  thysel', 
That  voice  that  nane  can  match. 

Then  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee,   Love  . 

But  if  fond  love  thy  heart  can  gain, 

I  never  broke  a  vow ; 
Nae  maiden  lays  her  skaith  to  me, 

I  never  loved  but  you. 
For  you  alone  I  ride  the  ring, 

For  you  I  wear  the  blue; 
For  you  alone  I  strive  to  sing, 
O  tell  me  how  to  woo ! 

Then  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee,   Love  5 

O  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee ! 
For  thy  dear  sake  nae  care  I'll  take 
Tho'  ne'er  another  trow  me. 


WILLIAM  COWPER 

470.  To  Mary  Unwin 

1731-1800 

ATARY!    I  want  a  lyre  with  other  strings, 

Such  aid  from  Heaven  as  some  have  feign'd  they  drew, 
An  eloquence  scarce  given  to  mortals,  new 
And  undebased  by  praise  of  meaner  things ; 
That  ere  through  age  or  woe  I  shed  my  wings, 
I  may  record  thy  worth  with  honour  due, 
In  verse  as  musical  as  thou  art  true, 
And  that  immortalizes  whom  it  sings: 
But  thou  hast  little  need.     There  is  a  Book 
By  seraphs  writ  with  beams  of  heavenly  light, 

T  5+5 


WILLIAM  COWPER 


On  which  the  eyes  of  God  not  rarely  look. 
A  chronicle  of  actions  just  and  bright — 

There  all  thy  deeds,  my  faithful  Mary,   shine; 

And  since  thou  own'st  that  praise,  I  spare  thee  mine, 

4//.  Aty  Mary 

"THE  twentieth  year  is  wellnigh  past 
Since  first  our  sky  was  overcast ; 
Ah,  would  that  this  might  be  the  last ! 
My  Mary! 

Thy  spirits  have  a  fainter  flow, 
I  see  thee  daily  weaker  grow; 
'Twas  my  distress  that  brought  thee  low, 
My  Mary ! 

Thy  needles,  once  a  shining  store, 
For  my  sake  restless  heretofore, 
Now  rust  disused,  and  shine  no  more ; 
My  Mary! 

For  though  thou  gladly  wouldst  fulfil 
The  same  kind  office  for  me  still, 
Thy  sight  now  seconds  not  thy  will, 

My  Mary ! 

But  well  thou  play'dst  the  housewife's  part, 
And  all  thy  threads  with  magic  art 
Have  wound  themselves  about  this  heart, 
My  Mary  ! 

Thy  indistinct  expressions  seem 
Like  language  utter 'd  in  a  dream ; 
Yet  me  they  charm,  whate'er  the   theme, 
My  Mary! 

54* 


WILLIAM  COWPER 

Thy  silver  locks,  once  auburn  bright, 
Are  still  more  lovely  in  my  sight 
Than  golden  beams  of  orient  light, 

My  Mary  ! 

For  could  I  view  nor  them  nor  thee, 
What  sight  worth  seeing  could  I  see  ? 
The  sun  would  rise  in  vain  for  me, 

My  Mary! 

Partakers  of  thy  sad  decline, 
Thy  hands  their  little  force  resign  ; 
Yet,  gently  press'd,  press  gently  mine, 
My  Mary ! 

Such  feebleness  of  limbs  thou  prov'st, 
That  now  at  every  step  thou  mov'st 
Upheld  by  two;   yet  still  thou  lov'st, 
My  Mary! 

And  still  to  love,  though  press'd  with  ill, 
In  wintry  age  to  feel  no  chill, 
With  me  is  to  be  lovely  still, 

My  Mary! 

But  ah  !    by  constant  heed  I  know 
How  oft  the  sadness  that  I  show 
Transforms  thy  smiles  to  looks  of  woe, 
My  Mary  ! 

And  should  my  future  lot  be  cast 
With  much  resemblance  of  the  past, 
Thy  worn-out  heart  will  break  at  last — 
My  Mary  ! 


JAMES  BEATTIE 

472.  An  Epitaph 

1735-1803 

T  IKE  thee  I  once  have  stemm'd  the  sea  of  life, 
•*•"      Like  thee  have  languish'd  after  empty  joys, 
Like  thee  have  labour'd  in  the  stormy  strife, 
Been  grieved  for  trifles,  and  amused  with  toys. 

Forget  my  frailties ;    thou  art  also  frail : 

Forgive  my  lapses ;   for  thyself  may'st  fall : 

Nor  read  unmoved  my  artless  tender  tale — 
I  was  a  friend,  O  man,  to  thee,  to  all. 


ISOBEL  PAGAN 

473.    Cay  the  Towes  to  the  Knowes 

1740-1811 

^"^A*  the  yowes  to  the  knowes, 
^-^     Ca'  them  where  the  heather  grows, 
Ca*  them  where  the  burnie  rows, 
My  bonnie  dearie. 

As  I  gaed  down  the  water  side, 
There  I  met  my  shepherd  lad; 
He  row'd  me  sweetly  in  his  plaid, 
And  he  ca'd  me  his  dearie. 

'Will  ye  gang  down  the  water  side, 
And  see  the  waves  sae  sweetly  glide 
Beneath  the  hazels  spreading  wide? 
The  moon  it  shines  fu'  clearly.' 

4fj.  yowes]  ewes.  knowes]  knolls,  little  hills.  rows]  rolls 

row'd]  rolled,  wrapped. 
548 


ISOBEL  PAGAN 

'  I  was  bred  up  at  nae  sic  school, 
My  shepherd  lad,  to  play  the  fool, 
And  a'  the  day  to  sit  in  dool, 
And  naebody  to  see  me.' 

'Ye  sail  get  gowns  and  ribbons  meet, 
Cauf-leather  shoon  upon  your  feet, 
And  in  my  arms  ye'se  lie  and  sleep, 
And  ye  sail  be  my  dearie.' 

'  If  ye'll  but  stand  to  what  ye've  said, 
I'se  gang  wi'  you,  my  shepherd  lad, 
And  ye  may  row  me  in  your  plaid, 
And  I  sail  be  your  dearie.' 

'While  waters  wimple  to  the  sea, 
While  day  blinks  in  the  lift  sae  hie, 
Till  clay-cauld  death   sail  blin'  my  e'e, 
Ye  aye  sail  be  my  dearie ! ' 


ANNA  L^TITIA  BARBAULD 

474-  Life 

1743-1825 

T   IFE  !    I  know  not  what  thou  art, 
*-*     But  know  that  thou  and  I  must  part; 
And  when,  or  how,  or  where  we  met, 
I  own  to  me's  a  secret  yet. 
But  this  I  know,   when  thou  art  fled, 
Where'er  they  lay  these  limbs,  this  head, 
No  clod  so  valueless  shall  be 
As  all  that  then  remains  of  me. 
f7j.  dool]  dule,  sorrow.  lift]  sky. 

549 


ANNA  L^ETITIA  BARBAULD 

O  whither,  whither  dost  thou  fly? 
Where  bend  unseen  thy  trackless  course  ? 

And  in  this  strange  divorce, 
Ah,  tell  where  I  must  seek  this  compound  I? 
To  the  vast  ocean  of  empyreal  flame 

From  whence  thy  essence  came 
Dost  thou  thy  flight  pursue,  when  freed 
From  matter's  base  encumbering  weed  ? 

Or  dost  thou,   hid  from  sight, 

Wait,  like  some  spell-bound  knight, 
Through  blank  oblivious  years  th'  appointed  hour 
To  break  thy  trance  and  reassume  thy  power  ? 
Yet  canst  thou  without  thought  or  feeling  be  ? 
O  say,  what  art  thou,  when  no  more  thou'rt  thee? 

Life!    we  have  been  long  together, 
Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy  weather; 
'Tis  hard  to  part  when  friends  are  dear; 
Perhaps  'twill  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear ; — 
Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning, 

Choose  thine  own  time ; 

Say  not  Good-night,  but  in  some  brighter  clime 
Bid  me  Good-morning ! 


FANNY  GREVILLE 
Trover  for  Indifference 

i8th  Cent 

T   ASK  no  kind  return  of  love, 
•*•      No  tempting  charm  to  please; 
Far  from  the  heart  those  gifts  remove, 

That  sighs  for  peace  and  ease. 
55° 


FANNY  GREVILLE 

Nor  peace  nor  ease  the  heart  can  know, 

That,  like  the  needle  true, 
Turns  at  the  touch  of  joy  or  woe, 

But,  turning,  trembles  too. 

Far  as  distress  the  soul  can  wound, 

'Tis  pain  in  each  degree : 
'Tis  bliss  but  to  a  certain  bound, 

Beyond  is  agony. 


JOHN  LOGAN 
476.  To  the  Cuckoo 


748-1? 


I_JAIL,   beauteous  stranger  of  the  grove: 
*  *•      Thou  messenger  of  Spring  ! 
Now  Heaven  repairs  thy  rural  seat, 
And  woods  thy  welcome  ring. 

What  time  the  daisy  decks  the  green, 

Thy  certain  voice  we  hear : 
Hast  thou  a  star  to  guide  thy  path, 

Or  mark  the  rolling  year  ? 

Delightful  visitant  I    with  thee 

I  hail  the  time  of  flowers, 
And  hear  the  sound  of  music  sweet 

From  birds  among  the  bowers. 

The  schoolboy,  wand'ring  through  the  wood 

To  pull  the  primrose  gay, 
Starts,  the  new  voice  of  Spring  to  hear, 

And  imitates  thy  lay. 


JOHN  LOGAN 

What  time  the  pea  puts  on  the  bloom, 

Thou  fli'st  thy  vocal  vale, 
An  annual  guest  in  other  lands, 

Another  Spring  to  hail. 

Sweet  bird !    thy  bower  is  ever  green, 

Thy  sky  is  ever  clear; 
Thou  hast  no  sorrow  in  thy  song, 

No  Winter  in  thy  year! 

O  could  I  fly,   I'd  fly  with  thee ! 

We'd  make,  with  joyful  wing, 
Our  annual  visit  o'er  the  globe, 

Companions  of  the  Spring. 


LADY  ANNE  LINDSAY 

477.  Auld  Jtobin  Graf 

1750-1825 

VW"HEN  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  and  the  kye  at  hame, 
™     And  a'  the  warld  to  rest  are  gane, 
The  waes  o'  my  heart  fa'  in  showers  frae  my  e'e, 
While  my  gudeman  lies  sound  by  me. 

Young  Jamie  lo'ed  me  weel,  and  sought  me  for  his  bride; 
But  saving  a  croun  he  had  naething  else  beside : 
To  make  the  croun  a  pund,   young  Jamie  gaed  to  sea; 
And  the  croun  and  the  pund  were  baith  for  me. 

He  hadna  been  awa'  a  week  but  only  twa, 
When  my  father  brak  his  arm,  and  the  cow  was  stown  awa ' ; 
My  mother  she  fell  sick, — and  my  Jamie  at  the  sea — 
And  auld  Robin  Gray  came  a-courtin'  me. 


LADY  ANNE  LINDSAY 

My  father  couldna  work,  and  my  mother  couldna  spin; 
I  toil'd  day  and  night,  but  their  bread  I  couldna  win; 
Auld  Rob  maintain'd  them   baith,  and  wi'  tears  in  his  e'e 
Said,   '  Jennie,  for  their  sakes,   O,  marry  me ! ' 

My  heart  it  said  nay  ;    I  look'd  for  Jamie  -back ; 

But  the  wind  it  blew  high,  and  the  ship  it  was  a  wrack ; 

His  ship  it  was  a  wrack — Why  didna  Jamie  dee  ? 

Or  why  do  I  live  to  cry,  Wae  's  me ! 

My  father  urged  me  sair :    my  mother  didna  speak ; 
But  she  look'd  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like  to  break : 
They  gi'ed  him  my  hand,  tho'  my  heart  was  in  the  sea ; 
Sae  auld  Robin  Gray  he  was  gudeman  to  me. 

I  hadna  been  a  wife  a  week  but  only  four, 
When  mournfu'  as  I  sat  on  the  stane  at  the  door, 
I  saw  my  Jamie's  wraith, — for  I  couldna  think  it  he, 
Till  he  said,   'I'm  come  hame  to  marry  thee.' 

0  sair,   sair  did  we  greet,  and  muckle  did  we  say; 
We  took  but  ae  kiss,  and  we  tore  ourselves  away : 

1  wish  that  I  were  dead,  but  I'm  no  like  to  dee ; 
And  why  was  I  born  to  say,   Wae 's  me! 

I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  to  spin  ; 
I  daurna  think  on  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a  sin ; 
But  I'll  do  my  best  a  gude  wife  aye  to  be, 
For  auld  Robin  Gray  he  is  kind  unto  me. 


SIR  WILLIAM  JONES 

478.  Epigram 

1746-1794 

/^N  parent  knees,  a  naked  new-born  child, 

^-^     Weeping  thou  sat'st  while  all  around  thee  smiled: 

So  live,  that  sinking  to  thy  life's  last  sleep, 

Calm  thou  may'st  smile,  whilst  all  around  thee  weep. 

THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

Song  from  <^/£Ila 

1752-1770 

SING  unto  my  roundelay, 

O  drop  the  briny  tear  with  me; 
Dance  no  more  at  holyday, 
Like  a  running  river  be : 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Black  his  cryne  as  the  winter  night, 
White  his  rode  as  the  summer  snow, 
Red  his  face  as  the  morning  light, 
Cold  he  lies  in  the  grave  below  : 

My  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  death-bed 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Sweet  his  tongue  as  the  throstle's  note, 
Quick  in  dance  as  thought  can  be, 
Deft  his  tabor,  cudgel  stout; 
O  he  lies  by  the  willow-tree! 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 
479-  cryne]  hair.  rode]  complexion. 

554 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

Hark !    the  raven  flaps  his  wing 
In  the  brier 'd  dell  below ; 
Hark !    the  death-owl  loud  doth  sing 
To  the  nightmares,  as  they  go : 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

See !    the  white  moon  shines  on  high 
Whiter  is  my  true-love's  shroud: 
Whiter  than  the  morning  sky, 
Whiter  than  the  evening  cloud : 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed 
All  under  the  w.iMow-tree. 

Here  upon  my  true-love's  grave 
Shall  the  barren  flowers  be  laid ; 
Not  one  holy  saint  to  save 
All  the  coldness  of  a  maid: 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed 
All   under  the  willow-tree. 

With  my  hands  I'll  dent  the  briers 
Round  his  holy  corse  to  gre : 
Ouph  and  fairy,  light  your  fires, 
Here  my  body  still  shall  be : 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

dent]  fasten.  gre]  grow.  ouph]  elf. 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

Come,  with  acorn-cup  and  thorn, 
Drain  my  heartes  blood  away ; 
Life  and  all  its  good  I  scorn, 
Dance  by  night,  or  feast  by  day: 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 


GEORGE  CRABBE 

480.  Meeting 

1754-183* 

A^Y  Damon  was  the  first  to  wake 
•!•'•*•      The  gentle  flame  that  cannot  die; 
My  Damon  is  the  last  to  take 

The  faithful  bosom's  softest  sigh: 
The  life  between  is  nothing  worth, 

O  cast  it  from  thy  thought  away ! 
Think  of  the  day  that  gave  it  birth, 

And  this  its  sweet  returning  day. 

Buried  be  all  that  has  been  done, 

Or  say  that  naught  is  done  amiss; 
For  who  the  dangerous  path  can  shun 

In  such  bewildering  world  as  this  ? 
But  love  can  every  fault  forgive, 

Or  with  a  tender  look  reprove ; 
And  now  let  naught  in  memory  live 

But  that  we  meet,  and  that  we  love. 


GEORGE  CRABBE 


481.  Late 


VVTE'VE  trod  the  maze  of  error  round, 

Long  wandering  in  the  winding  glade  ; 
And  now  the  torch  of  truth  is  found, 

It  only  shows  us  where  we  strayed: 
By  long  experience  taught,  we  know  — 

Can  rightly  judge  of  friends  and  foes; 
Can  all  the  worth  of  these  allow, 

And  all  the  faults  discern  in  those. 

Now,   'tis  our  boast  that  we  can  quell 

The  wildest  passions  in  their  rage, 
Can  their  destructive  force  repel, 

And  their  impetuous  wrath  assuage.  — 
Ah,  Virtue!    dost  thou  arm  when  now 

This  bold  rebellious  race  are  fled? 
When  all  these  tyrants  rest,  and  thou 

Art  warring  with  the  mighty  dead  ? 


4 #2.  A  Marriage  Ring 

"THE  ring,   so  worn  as  you  behold, 

So  thin,  so  pale,  is  yet  of  gold : 
The  passion  such  it  was  to  prove — 
Worn  with  life's  care,  love  yet  was  love. 


557 


WILLIAM  BLAKE 

483.  To  the  Muses 

WTHETHER  on  Ida's  shady  brow 

Or  in  the  chambers  of  the  East, 
The  chambers  of  the  Sun,  that  now 
From  ancient  melody  have  ceased; 

Whether  in  heaven  ye  wander  fair, 
Or  the  green  corners  of  the  earth, 

Or  the  blue  regions  of  the  air 

Where  the  melodious  winds  have  birth; 

Whether  on  crystal  rocks  ye  rove, 

Beneath  the  bosom  of  the  sea, 
Wandering  in  many  a  coral  grove ; 

Fair  Nine,  forsaking  Poetry; 

How  have  you  left  the  ancient  love 
That  bards  of  old  enjoy'd  in  you! 

The  languid  strings  do  scarcely  move, 
The  sound  is  forced,   the  notes  are  few. 

484.  To  Spring 

f~\  THOU  with  dewy  locks,  who  lookest  down 
^-^     Through  the  clear  windows  of  the  morning,  turn 
Thine  angel  eyes  upon  our  western  isle, 
Which  in  full  choir  hails  thy  approach,  O  Spring  1 

The  hills  tell  one  another,  and  the  listening 
Valleys  hear ;   all  our  longing  eyes  are  turn'd 
Up  to  thy  bright  pavilions :    issue  forth 
And  let  thy  holy  feet  visit  our  clime! 


WILLIAM  BLAKE 

Come  o'er  the  eastern  hills,  and  let  our  winds 
Kiss  thy  perfumed  garments ;    let  us  taste 
Thy  morn  and  evening  breath ;    scatter  thy  pearls 
Upon  our  lovesick  land  that  mourns  for  thee. 

O  deck  her  forth  with  thy  fair  fingers ;    pour 
Thy  soft  kisses  on  her  bosom ;    and  put 
Thy  golden  crown  upon  her  languish'd  head, 
Whose  modest  tresses  are  bound  up  for  thee. 


48  y.  Song 

TV^Y  silks  and  fine  array, 

•*••*•  My  smiles  and  languish'd  air, 

By  Love  are  driven  away ; 
And  mournful  lean  Despair 

Brings  me  yew  to  deck  my  grave: 

Such  end  true  lovers  have. 

His  face  is  fair  as  heaven 
When  springing  buds  unfold : 

O  why  to  him  was 't  given, 
Whose  heart  is  wintry  cold? 

His  breast  is  Love's  all-worshipp'd  tomb, 

Where  all  Love's  pilgrims  come. 

Bring  me  an  axe  and  spade, 

Bring  me  a  winding-sheet; 
When  I  my  grave  have  made, 

Let  winds  and  tempests  beat : 
Then  down  I'll  lie,  as  cold  as  clay : 
True  love  doth  pass  away ! 


WILLIAM  BLAKE 


486.  Reeds  of  Innocence 

PIPING  down  the  valleys  wild, 
*•        Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee, 
On  a  cloud  I  saw  a  child, 
And  he  laughing  said  to  me: 

•  Pipe  a  song  about  a  Lamb !  ' 

So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer. 

*  Piper,  pipe  that  song  again  ; ' 

So  I  piped:    he  wept  to  hear. 

'Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe; 

Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer ! ' 
So  I  sung  the  same  again, 

While  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear. 

'Piper,  sit  thee  down  and  write 

In  a  book  that  all  may  read.' 
So  he  vanish'd  from  my  sight; 

And  I  pluck'd  a  hollow  reed, 

And  I  made  a  rural  pen, 

And  I  stain'd  the  water  clear, 
And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs 

Every  child  may  joy  to  hear. 

487.  The  Little  Black  Boy 

MY  mother  bore  me  in  the  southern  wild, 
And  I  am  black,  but  O,  my  soul  is  white  1 
White  as  an  angel  is  the  English  child, 
But  I  am  black,  as  if  bereaved  of  light. 


WILLIAM  BLAKE 

My  mother  taught  me  underneath  a  tree, 
And,  sitting  down  before  the  heat  of  day. 

She  took  me  on  her  lap  and  kissed  me. 
And,  pointing  to  the  East,  began  to  say: 

4  Look  at  the  rising  sun :    there  God  does  live, 
And  gives  His  light,  and  gives  His  heat  away, 

And  flowers  and  trees  and  beasts  and  men  receive 
Comfort  in  morning,  joy  in  the  noonday. 

'And  we  are  put  on  earth  a  little  space, 

That  we  may  learn  to  bear  the  beams  of  love; 

And  these  black  bodies  and  this  sunburnt  face 
Are  but  a  cloud,  and  like  a  shady  grove. 

4  For  when  our  souls  have  learn'd  the  heat  to  bear, 
The  cloud  will  vanish,  we  shall  hear  His  voice, 

Saying,  "  Come  out  from  the  grove,  my  love  and  care, 
And  round  my  golden  tent  like  lambs  rejoice." ' 

Thus  did  my  mother  say,  and  kissed  me, 
And  thus  I  say  to  little  English  boy. 

When  I  from  black  and  he  from  white  cloud  free, 
And  round  the  tent  of  God  like  lambs  we  joy, 

I'll  shade  him  from  the  heat  till  he  can  bear 
To  lean  in  joy  upon  our  Father's  knee ; 

And  then  I'll  stand  and  stroke  his  silver  hair, 
And  be  like  him,  and  he  will  then  love  me. 


WILLIAM  BLAKE 


Hear  the  Voice 

t_J  EAR  the  voice  of  the  Bard, 

•*•          Who  present,  past,  and  future,   sees; 

Whose  ears  have  heard 

The  Holy  Word 

That  walk'd  among  the  ancient  trees'; 

Calling  the  lapsed  soul, 

And  weeping  in  the  evening  dew ; 

That  might  control 

The  starry  pole, 

And  fallen,  fallen  light  renew! 

<O  Earth,  O  Earth,  return! 

Arise  from  out  the  dewy  grass! 

Night  is  worn, 

And  the  morn 

Rises  from  the  slumbrous  mass. 

'  Turn  away  no  more ; 

Why  wilt  thou  turn  away  ? 

The  starry  floor, 

The  watery  shore, 

Is  given  thee  till  the  break  of  day. 


The  Tiger 

T^IGER,  tiger,  burning  bright 
•*•       In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 


WILLIAM  BLAKE 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burnt  the  fire  of  thine  eyes  ? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire  ? 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire? 

And  what  shoulder  and  what  art 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart  ? 
And,  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What  dread  hand  and  what  dread  feet? 

What  the  hammer  ?    What  the  chain  ? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain  ? 
What  the  anvil?    What  dread  grasp 
Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  water'd  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  He  smile  His  work  to  see  ? 
Did  He  who  made  the  lamb  make  thee  ? 

Tiger,   tiger,   burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 

490.  Cradle  Song. 

CLEEP,  sleep,   beauty  bright, 
^      Dreaming  in  the  joys  of  night; 
Sleep,  sleep ;    in  thy  sleep 
Little  sorrows  sit  and  weep. 

Sweet  babe,  in  thy  face 
Soft  desires  I  can  trace, 
Secret  joys  and  secret  smiles, 
Little  pretty  infant  wiles. 


WILLIAM  BLAKE 

As  thy  softest  limbs  I  feel 
Smiles  as  of  the  morning  steal 
O'er  thy  cheek,  and  o'er  thy  breast 
Where  thy  little  heart  doth  rest. 

O  the  cunning  wiles  that  creep 
In  thy  little  heart  asleep ! 
When  thy  little  heart  doth  wake, 
Then  the  dreadful  night  shall  break. 

491.  Night 

"THE  sun  descending  in  the  west, 
*•       The  evening  star  does  shine; 
The  birds  are  silent  in  their  nest. 
And  I  must  seek  for  mine. 
The  moon,  like  a  flower 
In  heaven's  high  bower, 
With  silent  delight 
Sits  and  smiles  on  the  night. 

Farewell,  green  fields  and  happy  grove, 

Where  flocks  have  took  delight: 
Where  lambs  have  nibbled,   silent  move 
The  feet  of  angels  bright; 
Unseen  they  pour  blessing 
And  joy  without  ceasing 
On  each  bud  and  blossom, 
On  each  sleeping  bosom. 

They  look  in  every  thoughtless  nest 
Where  birds  are  cover'd  warm; 

They  visit  caves  of  every  beast, 
To  keep  them  all  from  harm : 
5*4 


WILLIAM  BLAKE 

If  they  see  any  weeping 
That  should  have  been  sleeping, 
They  pour  sleep  on  their  head, 
And  sit  down  by  their  bed. 

When  wolves  and  tigers  howl  for  prey, 

They  pitying  stand  and  weep, 
Seeking  to  drive  their  thirst  away 
And  keep  them  from  the  sheep. 
But,  if  they  rush  dreadful, 
The  angels,  most  heedful, 
Receive  each  mild  spirit, 
New  worlds  to  inherit. 

And  there  the  lion's  ruddy  eyes 
Shall  flow  with  tears  of  gold; 
And  pitying  the  tender  cries, 
And  walking  round  the  fold: 

Saying,    'Wrath  by  His  meekness. 
And,   by  His  health,  sickness, 
Are  driven  away 
From  our  immortal  day. 

*And  now  beside  thee,  bleating  lamb, 

I  can  lie  down  and  sleep, 
Or  think  on  Him  who  bore  thy  name, 
Graze  after  thee,  and  weep. 
For,  wash'd  in  life's  river, 
My  bright  mane  for  ever 
Shall  shine  like  the  gold 
As  I  guard  o'er  the  fold.' 


WILLIAM  BLAKE 
4p2.  Love's  Secret 

XT  EVER  seek  to  tell  thy  love, 

Love  that  never  told  can  be ; 
For  the  gentle  wind  doth  move 
Silently,   invisibly. 

I  told  my  love,  I  told  my  love, 
I  told  her  all  my  heart, 

Trembling,  cold,  in  ghastly  fears. 
Ah  !  she  did  depart ! 

Soon  after  she  was  gone  from  me, 

A  traveller  came  by, 
Silently,   invisibly : 

He  took  her  with  a  sigh. 


ROBERT  BURNS 

93.  Mary  Mori  son 

r\   MARY,  at  thy  window  be, 

^-^      It  is  the  wish  d,  the  trysted  hour ! 

Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see, 

That  make  the  miser's  treasure  poor: 
How  blythely  wad  I  bide  the  stour 

A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun, 
Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure, 

The  lovely  Mary  Morison ! 

Yestreen,  when  to  the  trembling  string 

The  dance  gaed  thro'  the  lighted  ha', 
To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, 

I  sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  saw: 
stour]  dust,  turmoil 
566 


ROBERT  BURNS 

Tho'  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 
And  yon  the  toast  of  a'  the  town, 

I  sigh'd,  and  said  amang  them  a', 
'  Ye  arena  Mary  Morison.' 

O  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace, 

Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  die? 
Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 

Whase  only  faut  is  loving  thee  ? 
If  love  for  love  thou  wiltna  gie, 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown ; 
A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 

The  thought  o"  Mary  Morison. 


O1 


Jean 

|F  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 

I  dearly  like  the  west, 
For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  I  lo'e  best: 
There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row/ 

And  monie  a  hill  between ; 
But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 
Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I   see  her  sweet  and  fair: 
I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air: 
There  's  not  a  bonnie  flower  that  springs 

By  fountain,   shaw,  or  green ; 
There  's  not  a  bonnie  bird  that  sings, 

But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean. 
airts]  points  of  the  compass,     row]  roll 


ROBERT  BURNS 


Auld  Lang  Syne 

CHOULD  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
^     And  never  brought  to  min' ? 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  days  o'  lang  syne  ? 

We  twa  hae  rin  about  the  braes, 

And  pu'd  the  gowans  fine ; 
But  we've  wander'd  monie  a  weary  fit 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  paidl't  i'  the  burn, 

Frae  mornin'  sun  till  dine ; 
But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roar'd 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

And  here  's  a  hand,   my  trusty  fiere. 

And  gie's  a  hand  o'  thine ; 
And  we'll  tak  a  right  guid-willie  waught 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

And  surely  ye'll  be  your  pint-stowp, 

And  surely  I'll  be  mine ; 
And  we'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 

For  auld  lang  syne ! 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear. 

For  auld  lang  syne, 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

gowans]  daisies.  fit]  foot.  dine]  dinner-time.  fiere] 

partner.  gnid-willie  waught]  friendly  draught. 


ROBERT  BURNS 


My  Bonnie  Mary 

f~**  O  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine, 
^— *"  An'  fill  it  in  a  silver  tassie, 
That  I  may  drink,  before  I  go, 

A  service  to  my  bonnie  lassie. 
The  boat  rocks  at  the  pier  o'  Leith, 

Fu'  loud  the  wind  blaws  frae  the  ferry, 
The  ship  rides  by  the  Berwick-law, 

And  I  maun  leave  my  bonnie  Mary. 

The  trumpets  sound,   the  banners  fly, 

The  glittering  spears  are  ranked  ready; 
The  shouts  o'  war  are  heard  afar, 

The  battle  closes  thick  and  bloody; 
But  it's  no  the  roar  o'  sea  or  shore 

Wad  mak  me  langer  wish  to  tarry ; 
Nor  shout  o'  war  that  's  heard  afar — 

It  's  leaving  thee,  my  bonnie  Mary ! 


4^7,         John  Anderson,  my  Jo 

T  OHN  ANDERSON,  my  jo,  John, 
*•*      When  we  were  first  acquent, 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent ; 
But  now  your  brow  is  beld,  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snow ; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo ! 

496.  tassie]  cup.  497.  jo]  sweetheart.  brent]  smooth, 

nnwrinkled.  beld]  bald.  pow]  pate. 

569 


ROBERT  BURNS 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither; 
And  monie  a  canty  day,  John, 

We've  had  wi'  ane  anither: 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  hand  in  hand  we'll  go, 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

498.  The  Banks  o'  T>oon 

VE  flowery  banks  o'  bonnie  Doon, 
•*•       How  can  ye  blume  sae  fair! 
How  can  ye  chant,   ye  little  birds, 
And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care ! 

Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird, 
That  sings  upon  the  bough ; 

Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days 
When  my  fause  luve  was  true. 

Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird, 
That  sings  beside  thy  mate ; 

For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 
And  wistna  o'  my  fate. 

Aft  hae  I  roved  by  bonnie  Doon, 
To  see  the  woodbine  twine ; 

And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  luve, 
And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose 

Upon  a  morn  in  June; 
And  sae  I  flourish'd  on  the  morn, 

And  sae  was  pu'd  or'  noon, 
f  97.  canty]  cheerful.          498.  or']  ere. 
570 


ROBERT  BURNS 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose 

Upon  its  thorny  tree ; 
But  my  fause  luver  staw  my  rose, 

And  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 

4<?p.  Ae  Fond  Kiss 

A  E  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever ; 
•*^     Ae  fareweel,  alas,  for  ever ! 
Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee, 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee ! 

Who  shall  say  that  Fortune  grieves  him 
While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him? 
Me,   nae  cheerfu'  twinkle  lights  me, 
Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 

I'll  ne'er  blame  my  partial   fancy ; 
Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy ; 
But  to  see  her  was  to  love  her. 
Love  but  her,   and  love  for  ever. 

Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly, 
Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly, 
Never  met — or  never  parted, 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted. 

Fare  thee  weel,  thou  first  and  fairest! 
Fare  thee  weel,   thou  best  and  dearest! 
Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure, 
Peace,  enjoyment,  love,  and  pleasure! 

Ae  fond  kiss,   and  then  we  sever  1 
Ae  fareweel,  alas,  for  ever! 
Deep  in  heart- wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee, 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee ! 
8.  staw]  stole.  499.  wage]  stake,  plight. 

57» 


ROBERT  BURNS 


foo.  Bonnie  Lesley 

r\  SAW  ye  bonnie  Lesley 

^-^     As  she  gaed  o'er  the  Border? 

She's  gane,  like  Alexander, 

To  spread  her  conquests  farther. 

To  see  her  is  to  love  her, 
And  love  but  her  for  ever ; 

For  Nature  made  her  what  she  is, 
And  ne'er  made  sic  anither  I 

Thou  art  a  queen,   fair  Lesley, 
Thy  subjects  we,  before  thee : 

Thou  art  divine,  fair  Lesley, 
The  hearts  o*  men  adore  thee. 

The  Deil  he  couldna  scaith  thee, 
Or  aught  that  wad  belang  thee; 

He'd  look  into  thy  bonnie  face 
And  say,   'I  canna  wrang  thee!' 

The  Powers  aboon  will  tent  thee, 
Misfortune  sha'na  steer  thee : 

Thou'rt  like  themsel'  sae  lovely, 
That  ill  they'll  ne'er  let  near  thee. 

Return  again,   fair  Lesley, 

Return  to  Caledonie! 
That  we  may  brag  we  hae  a  lass 

There  's  nane  again  sae  bonnie  I 

scaith]  harm.  tent]  watch.  steer]  molest 

57» 


Y1 


ROBERT  BURNS 


?oi.  Highland  Mary 

'E  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie ! 
There  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry ; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloom'd  the  gay  green  birk, 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom, 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasp'd  her  to  my  bosom ! 
The  golden  hours  on  angel  wings 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie ; 
For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  monie  a  vow  and  lock'd  embrace 

Our  parting  was  fu*  tender ; 
And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder; 
But  oh  !    fell  Death's  untimely  frost, 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early! 
Now  green  's  the  sod,  and  cauld  's  the  clay, 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary! 

O  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips 

1  aft  hae  kiss'd  sae  fondly ! 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly! 
drumlie]  miry. 


ROBERT  BURNS 

And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust 
That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly! 

But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 
Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 


f02.  0  were  my  Love  yon  Lilac  fair 

r\  WERE  my  Love  yon  lilac  fair, 
^•^      Wi'  purple  blossoms  to  the  spring, 
And  I  a  bird  to  shelter  there, 

When  wearied  on  my  little  wing ; 
How  I  wad  mourn  when  it  was  torn 

By  autumn  wild  and  winter  rude ! 
But  I  wad  sing  on  wanton  wing 

When  youthfu'  May  its  bloom  renew'd. 

O  gin  my  Love  were  yon  red  rose 

That  grows  upon  the  castle  wa', 
And  I  mysel  a  drap  o'  dew, 

Into  her  bonnie  breast  to  fa'; 
O  there,  beyond  expression  blest, 

I'd  feast  on  beauty  a'  the  night ; 
Seal'd  on  her  silk-saft  faulds  to  rest, 

Till  fley'd  awa'  by  Phoebus'  light. 


A  Red,  Red  Rose 

MY  Luve's  like  a  red,   red   rose 

That 's  newly  sprung  in  June . 
O  my  Luve  's  like  the  melodie 
That's  sweetly  play'd  in  tune! 

574 


ROBERT  BURNS 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  Bonnie  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I : 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry: 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 
And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun ; 

I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 
While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 

And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  Luve, 
And  fare  thee  weel  a  while ! 

And  I  will  come  again,  my  Luve, 
Tho'  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 

Lament  for  Culloden 

'"THE  lovely  lass  o'  Inverness, 
•*•       Nae  joy  nor  pleasure  can   she  see; 
For  e'en  and  morn  she  cries,   '  Alas ! ' 

And  aye  the  saut  tear  blin's  her  e'e: 
'  Drumossie  moor,  Drumossie  day, 

A  waefu'  day  it  was  to  me ! 
For  there  I  lost  my  father  dear, 

My  father  dear  and  brethren  three. 

*  Their  winding-sheet  the  bluidy  clay, 

Their  graves  are  growing  green  to  see; 
And  by  them  lies  the  dearest  lad 

That  ever  blest  a  woman's  e'e ! 
Now  wae  to  thee,   thou  cruel  lord, 

A  bluidy  man  I  trow  thou  be ; 
For  monie  a  heart  thou  hast  made  sair, 

That  ne'er  did  wrang  to  thine  or  thee.' 

575 


ROBERT  BURNS 
The  Farewell 

T  was  a'   for  our  rightfu'  King 


We  left  fair  Scotland's  strand; 
It  was  a'  for  our  rightfu'   King 
We  e'ei  saw  Irish  land, 
My  dear  — 
We  e'er  saw  Irish  land. 

Now  a*  is  done  that  men  can  do, 

And  a'  is  done  in  vain  ; 
My  love  and  native  land,  farewell, 
For  I  maun  cross  the  main, 

My  dear  — 

For  I  maun  cross  the  main. 
He  turn'd  him  right  and  round  about 

Upon  the  Irish  shore; 
And  gae  his  bridle-reins  a  shake, 
With,   Adieu  for  evermore, 

My  dear  — 

With,  Adieu  for  evermore  ! 
The  sodger  frae  the  wars  returns, 

The  sailor  frae  the  main  ; 
But  I  hae  parted  frae  my  love, 
Never  to  meet  again, 

My  dear  — 
Never  to  meet  again. 
When  day  is  gane,  and  night  is  come, 

And  a'  folk  bound  to  sleep, 
I  think  on  him  that  's  far  awa', 
The  lee-lang  night,  and  weep, 

My  dear  — 

The  lee-lang  night,  and  weep. 
lee-lang]  livelong. 
576 


ROBERT  BURNS 
fo6.  HarJ^!   the  Mavis 

/^"V  the  yowes  to  the  knowes, 
^      Ca'  them  where  the  heather  grows, 
Ca    them  where  the  burnie  rows, 

My  bonnie  dearie. 
Hark  !    the  mavis'  evening  sang 
Sounding  Clouden's  woods  amang, 
Then  a-faulding  let  us  gang, 

My  bonnie  dearie. 
We'll  gae  down  by  Clouden  side, 
Through  the  hazels  spreading  wide, 
O'er  the  waves  that  sweetly  glide 

To  the  moon  sae  clearly. 
Yonder  Clouden's  silent  towers, 
Where  at  moonshine  midnight  hours 
O'er  the  dewy  bending  flowers 
Fairies  dance  sae  cheery. 
Ghaist  nor  bogle  shalt  thou  fear; 
Thou'rt  to  Love  and  Heaven  sae  dear. 
Nocht  of  ill  may  come  thee  near, 

My  bonnie  dearie. 
Fair  and  lovely  as  thou  art, 
Thou  hast  stown  my  very  heart ; 
I  can  die — but  canna  part, 

My  bonnie  dearie. 
While  waters  wimple  to  the  sea  ?, 
While  day  blinks  in  the  lift  sae  hie; 
Till   clay-cauld  death  shall  blin'  my  e'e, 

Ye  shall  be  my  dearie. 
Ca'  the  yowes  to  the  knowes  ,   .   . 


577 


HENRY  ROWE 

to 7.  Sun 

'  '  1750-1819 

ANGEL,  king  of  streaming  morn ; 
**•     Cherub,   call'd  by  Heav'n  to  shine ; 
T'  orient  tread  the  waste  forlorn; 
Guide  aetherial,  pow'r  divine ; 

Thou,   Lord  of  all  within ! 
Golden  spirit,  lamp  of  day, 
Host,  that  dips  in  blood  the  plain, 
Bids  the  crimson'd  mead  be  gay, 
Bids  the  green  blood  burst  the  vein; 

Thou,    Lord  of  all  within ! 

Soul,  that  wraps  the  globe  in  light; 
Spirit,  beckoning  to  arise; 
Drives  the  frowning  brow  of  night, 
Glory  bursting  o'er  the  skies ; 
Thou,  Lord  of  all  within  1 

fo8.  Moon 

TTHEE  too,  modest  tressed  maid, 
•*•       When  thy  fallen  stars  appear; 
When  in  lawn  of  fire  array'd 

Sov'reign  of  yon  powder'd  sphere; 
To  thee  I   chant  at  close  of  day, 
Beneath,   O  maiden  Moon !    thy  ray. 
Throned  in  sapphired  ring  supreme, 

Pregnant  with  celestial  juice, 
On  silver  wing  thy  diamond  stream 

Gives  what  summer  hours  produce; 
While  view'd  impearl'd  earth's  rich  inlay, 
Beneath,  O  maiden  Moon !    thy  ray. 


HENRY  ROWE 

Glad,  pale  Cynthian  wine  I  sip, 
Breathed  the  flow'ry  leaves  among; 

Draughts  delicious  wet  my  lip; 

Drown'd  in  nectar  drunk  my  song; 

While  tuned  to  Philomel  the  lay, 

Beneath,   O  maiden  Moon!    thy  ray. 

Dew,  that  od'rous  ointment  yields, 
Sweets,  that  western  winds  disclose, 

Bathing  spring's  more  purpled  fields, 
Soft's  the  band  that  winds  the  rose; 

While  o'er  thy  myrtled  lawns  I  stray 

Beneath,   O  maiden  Moon!    thy  ray. 


WILLIAM  LISLE  BOWLES 
Top.  Time  and  Grief 

OTTx/rr?  i  '762-1850 

TIME !    who  know'st  a  lenient  hand  to  lay 
Softest  on  sorrow's  wound,  and  slowly  thence 
(Lulling  to  sad  repose  the  weary  sense) 
The  faint  pang  stealest  unperceived  away; 
On  thee  I  rest  my  only  hope  at  last, 
And  think,  when  thou  hast  dried  the  bitter  tear 
That  flows  in  vain  o'er  all  my  soul  held  dear, 
I  may  look  back  on  every  sorrow  past, 
And  meet  life's  peaceful  evening  with  a  smile: 
As  some  lone  bird,  at  day's  departing  hour, 
Sings  in  the  sunbeam,  of  the  transient  shower 

Forgetful,  though  its  wings  are  wet  the  while: 

Yet  ah !    how  much  must  this  poor  heart  endure 
Which  hopes  from  thee,  and  thee  alone,  a  cure 


e' 
579 


JOANNA  BAILLIE 

.  The  Outlaw's  Song 

1763-1851 

THE  chough  and  crow  to  roost  are  gone, 
The  owl  sits  on  the  tree, 
The  hush'd  wind  wails  with  feeble  moan, 

Like  infant  charity. 
The  wild-fire  dances  on  the  fen, 

The  red  star  sheds  its  ray; 
Uprouse  ye  then,  my  merry  men! 
It  is  our  op'ning  day. 

Both  child  and  nurse  are  fast  asleep, 

And  closed  is  every  flower, 
And  winking  tapers  faintly  peep 

High  from  my  lady's  bower; 
Bewilder'd  hinds  with  shorten'd  ken 

Shrink  on  their  murky  way; 
Uprouse  ye  then,  my  merry  men! 

It  is  our  op'ning  day. 

Nor  board  nor  garner  own  we  now, 

Nor  roof  nor  latched  door, 
Nor  kind  mate,  bound  by  holy  vow 

To  bless  a  good  man's  store; 
Noon  lulls  us  in  a  gloomy  den, 

And  night  is  grown  our  day; 
Uprouse  ye  then,  my  merry  men! 

And  use  it  as  ye  may. 


MARY  LAMB 

///.  A  Child 

1765-1847 

A     CHILD'S  a  plaything  for  an  hour; 
•**     Its  pretty  tricks  we  try 
For  that  or  for  a  longer  space — 
Then  tire,   and  lay  it  by. 

But  I  knew  one  that  to  itself 

All  seasons  could  control ; 
That  would  have  mock'd  the  sense  of  pain 

Out  of  a  grieved  soul. 

Thou  straggler  into  loving  arms, 

Young  climber-up  of  knees, 
When  I   forget  thy  thousand  ways 

Then  life  and  all  shall  cease. 

CAROLINA,  LADY  NAIRNE 

f/2.  The  Land  of  the  Leal 

•766-1845 

T  'M  wearin'  awa',  John, 

•*•      Like  snaw-wreaths  in  thaw,  John, 

I'm  wearin'  awa' 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
There 's  nae  sorrow  there,  John, 
There 's  neither  cauld  nor  care,  John, 
The  day  is  aye  fair 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
Our  Bonnie  bairn's  there,  John, 
She  was  baith  gude  and  fair,  John ; 
And  O  !    we  grudged  her  sai.' 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 


CAROLINA,  LADY  NAIRNE 

But  sorrow's  sel'  wears  past,  John, 
And  joy's  a-coming  fast,  John, 
The  joy  that  *s  aye  to  last 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
Sae  dear's  the  joy  was  bought,  John, 
Sae  free  the  battle  fought,  John, 
That  sinfu'  man  e'er  brought 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
O,   dry  your  glistening  e'e,  John  ! 
My  saul  langs  to  be  free,  John, 
And  angels  beckon  me 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
O,  haud  ye  leal  and  true,  John  ! 
Your  day  it 's  wearin'  through,   John, 
And  I'll  welcome  you 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
Now  fare-ye-weel,  my  ain  John, 
This  warld's  cares  are  vain,  John, 
We'll  meet,  and  we'll  be  fain, 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

JAMES  HOGG 

rn.  A   Boy's  Song 

1770-1835 
'WT'HERE  the  pools  are  bright  and  deep, 

**        Where  the  grey  trout  lies  asleep, 
Up  the  river  and  over  the  lea, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 
Where  the  blackbird  sings  the  latest, 
Where  the  hawthorn  blooms  the  sweetest, 
Where  the  nestlings  chirp  and  flee, 
That's  the  way   for  Billy  and  me. 


JAMES  HOGG 

Where  the  mowers  mow  the  cleanest, 
Where  the  hay  lies  thick  and  greenest, 
There  to  track  the  homeward  bee, 
That 's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 
Where  the  hazel  bank  is  steepest, 
Where  the  shadow  falls  the  deepest, 
Where  the  clustering  nuts  fall  free, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 
Why  the  boys  should  drive  away 
Little  sweet  maidens  from  trie  play, 
Or  love  to  banter  and  fight  so  well, 
That 's  the  thing  I  never  could  tell. 
But  this  I  know,   I  love  to  play 
Through  the  meadow,  among  the  hay 
Up  the  water  and  over  the  lea, 
That 's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

74.  Kilmeny 

OONNIE   Kilmeny  gaed  up  the  glen; 
•*-*     But  it  wasna  to  meet  Duneira's  mei», 
Nor  the  rosy  monk  of  the  isle  to  see, 
For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be. 
It  was  only  to  hear  the  yorlin  sing, 
And  pu'  the  cress-flower  round  the  spring ; 
The  scarlet  hypp  and  the  hindberrye, 
And  the  nut  that  hung  frae  the  hazel  tree ; 
For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be. 
But  lang  may  her  minny  look  o'er  the  wa', 
And  lang  may  she  seek  i'  the  green- wood  shaw ; 
Lang  the  laird  o'  Duneira  blame, 
And  lang,  lang  greet  or  Kilmeny  come  hame ! 
.  yorlin]  the  yellow-hammer.       hindberrye]  bramble.        greet] 
n.  minny]  mother. 

583 


JAMES  HOGG 

When  many  a  day  had  come  and  fled, 

When  grief  grew  calm,  and  hope  was  dead, 

When  mess  for  Kilmeny's  soul  had  been  sung, 

When  the  bedesman  had  pray'd  and  the  dead  bell  rung, 

Late,  late  in  gloamin'  when  all  was  still, 

When  the  fringe  was  red  on  the  westlin  hill, 

The  wood  was  sere,  the  moon  i'  the  wane, 

The  reek  o'  the  cot  hung  over  the  plain, 

Like  a  little  wee  cloud  in  the  world  its  lane; 

When  the  ingle  low'd  wi'  an  eiry  leme, 

Late,   late  in  the  gloamin'   Kilmeny  came  hame  I 

'  Kilmeny,    Kilmeny,   where  have  you  been  ? 
Lang  hae  we  sought  baith  holt  and  den; 
By  linn,  by  ford,  and  green-wood  tree, 
Yet  you  are  halesome  and  fair  to  see. 
Where  gat  you  that  joup  o'  the  lily  scheen  ? 
That  bonnie  snood  of  the  birk  sae  green? 
And  these  roses,  the  fairest  that  ever  were  seen  ? 
Kilmeny,    Kilmeny,   where  have  you  been  ? ' 

Kilmeny  look'd  up  with  a  lovely  grace, 

But  nae  smile  was  seen  on   Kilmeny's  face; 

As  still  was  her  look,  and  as  still  was  her  e'e, 

As  the  stillness  that  lay  on  the  emerant  lea, 

Or  the  mist  that  sleeps  on  a  waveless  sea. 

For  Kilmeny  had  been,  she  knew  not  where, 

And  Kilmeny  had  seen  what  she  could  not  declare ; 

Kilmeny  had  been  where  the  cock  never  crew, 

Where  the  rain  never  fell,  and  the  wind  never  blew. 

But  it  seem'd  as  the  harp  of  the  sky  had  rung, 

And  the  airs  of  heaven  play'd  round  her  tongue, 

westlin]  western.          its  lane]  alone,  by  itself.  low'd]  flamed, 

eiry  leme]  eery  gleam.  linn]  waterfall.  joup]  mantle. 

584 


JAMES  HOGG 

When  she  spake  of  the  lovely  forms  she  had  seen, 

And  a  land  where  sin  had  never  been ; 

A  land  of  love  and  a  land  of  light, 

Withouten  sun,  or  moon,  or  night; 

Where  the  river  swa'd  a  living  stream, 

And  the  light  a  pure  celestial  beam; 

The  land  of  vision,  it  would  seem, 

A  still,  an  everlasting  dream. 

In  yon  green-wood  there  is  a  waik, 
And  in  that  waik  there  is  a  wene, 

And  in  that  wene  there  is  a  maike, 
That  neither  has  flesh,  blood,  nor  bane ; 
And  down  in  yon  green-wood  he  walks  his  lane. 

In  that  green  wene   Kilmeny  lay, 

Her  bosom  happ'd  wi'  flowerets  gay ; 

But  the  air  was  soft  and  the  silence  deep, 

And  bonnie  Kilmeny  fell  sound  asleep. 

She  kenn'd  nae  mair,  nor  open'd  her  e'e, 

Till  waked  by  the  hymns  of  a  far  countrye. 

She  'waken'd  on  a  couch  of  the  silk  sae  slim, 

All  striped  wi'  the  bars  of  the  rainbow's  rim ; 

And  lovely  beings  round  were  rife, 

Who  erst  had  travell'd   mortal  life; 

And  aye  they  smiled  and  'gan  to  speer, 

'  What  spirit  has  brought  this  mortal  here  ? ' — 

'  Lang  have  I  journey'd,  the  world  wide,' 

A  meek  and  reverend  fere  replied ; 

'  Baith  night  and  day  I  have  watch'd  the  fair, 

Eident  a  thousand  years  and  mair. 

swa'd]  swelled.  waik]  a  row  of  deep  damp  grass.  wene] 

?  whin,  a  furze-bush.  maike]  a  mate,  match,  equal.  his 

lane]  alone,  by  himself.  happ'd]  covered.  speer]  inquire, 

fere]  fellow.  eident]  unintermiltently. 

U  3  585 


JAMES  HOGG 

Yes,  I  have  watch'd  o'er  ilk  degree, 

Wherever  blooms  femenitye; 

But  sinless  virgin,   free  of  stain 

In  mind  and  body,  fand  I  nane. 

Never,  since  the  banquet  of  time, 

Found  I  a  virgin  in  her  prime, 

Till  late  this  bonnie  maiden  I  saw 

As  spotless  as  the  morning  snaw  : 

Full  twenty  years  she  has  lived  as  free 

As  the  spirits  that  sojourn  in  this  countrye : 

I  have  brought  her  away  frae  the  snares  of  men, 

That  sin  or  death  she  never  may  ken.' — 

They  clasp'd  her  waist  and  her  hands  sae  fair, 

They  kiss'd  her  cheek  and  they  kerned  her  hair, 

And  round  came  many  a  blooming  fere, 

Saying,   '  Bonnie  Kilmeny,  ye're  welcome  here ! 

Women  are  freed  of  the  littand  scorn: 

O   blest  be  the  day  Kilmeny  was  born ! 

Now  shall  the  land  of  the  spirits  see, 

Now  shall  it  ken  what  a  woman  may  be ! 

Many  a  lang  year,   in  sorrow  and  pain, 

Many  a  lang  year  through  the  world  we've  gane, 

Commission'd  to  watch  fair  womankind, 

For  it 's  they  who  nurice  the  immortal  mind. 

We  have  watch'd  their  steps  as  the  dawning  shone, 

And  deep  in  the  green-wood  walks  alone; 

By  lily  bower  and  silken  bed, 

The  viewless  tears  have  o'er  them  shed ; 

Have  soothed  their  ardent  minds  to  sleep, 

Or  left  the  couch  of  love  to  weep. 

kerned]  combed. 
586 


JAMES  HOGG 

We  have  seen!    we  have  seen!    but  the  time  must  come, 
And  the  angels  will  weep  at  the  day  of  doom! 

'  O  would  the  fairest  of  mortal  kind 
Aye  keep  the  holy  truths  in  mind, 
That  kindred  spirits  their  motions  see, 
Who  watch  their  ways  with  anxious  e'e, 
And  grieve  for  the  guilt  of  humanitye ! 
O,  sweet  to  Heaven  the  maiden's  prayer, 
And  the  sigh  that  heaves  a  bosom  sae  fair ! 
And  dear  to  Heaven  the  words  of  truth, 
And  the  praise  of  virtue  frae  beauty's  mouth ! 
And  dear  to  the  viewless  forms  of  air, 
The  minds  that  kyth  as  the  body  fair! 

'  O  bonnie   Kilmeny !    free  frae  stain, 
If  ever  you  seek  the  world  again, 
That  world  of  sin,  of  sorrow  and  fear, 
O  tell  of  the  joys  that  are  waiting  here  ; 
And  tell  of  the  signs  you  shall  shortly  see  ; 
Of  the  times  that  are  now,  and  the  times  that  shall  be.3 — 
They  lifted  Kilmeny,  they  led  her  away, 
And  she  walk'd  in  the  light  of  a  sunless  day ; 
The  sky  was  a  dome  of  crystal  bright, 
The  fountain  of  vision,  and  fountain  of  light : 
The  emerald  fields  were  of  dazzling  glow, 
And  the  flowers  of  everlasting  blow. 
Then  deep  in  the  stream  her  body  they  laid, 
That  her  youth  and  beauty  never  might  fade ; 
And  they  smiled  on  heaven,   when  they  saw  her  lie 
In  the  stream  of  life  that  wander'd  bye. 
And  she  heard  a  song,   she  heard  it  sung, 
She  kenn'd  not  where;    but  sae  sweetly  it  rung, 
kyth]  show,  appear. 


JAMES  HOGG 

It  fell  on  the  ear  like  a  dream  of  the  morn : 
'  O,  blest  be  the  day  Kilmeny  was  born  ! 
Now  shall  the  land  of  the  spirits  see, 
Now  shall  it  ken  what  a  woman  may  be ! 
The  sun  that  shines  on  the  world  sae  bright, 
A  borrow'd  gleid  frae  the  fountain  of  light ; 
And  the  moon  that  sleeks  the  sky  sae  dun, 
Like  a  gouden  bow,  or  a  beamless  sun, 
Shall  wear  away,  and  be  seen  nae  mair, 
And  the  angels  shall  miss  them  travelling  the  air. 
But  lang,  lang  after  baith  night  and  day, 
When  the  sun  and  the  world  have  elyed  away ; 
When  the  sinner  has  gane  to  his  waesome  doom, 
Kilmeny  shall  smile  in  eternal  bloom  ! ' — 

They  bore  her  away,  she  wist  not  how, 

For  she  felt  not  arm  nor  rest  below ; 

But  so  swift  they  wain'd  her  through  the  light, 

'Twas  like  the  motion  of  sound  or  sight ; 

They  seem'd  to  split  the  gales  of  air, 

And  yet  nor  gale  nor  breeze  was  there. 

Unnumber'd  groves  below  them  grew, 

They  came,  they  pass'd,  and  backward  flew, 

Like  floods  of  blossoms  gliding  on, 

In  moment  seen,  in  moment  gone. 

O,   never  vales  to  mortal  view 

Appear'd  like  those  o'er  which  they  flew ! 

That  land  to  human  spirits  given, 

The  lowermost  vales  of  the  storied  heaven ; 

From  thence  they  can  view  the  world  below, 

And  heaven's  blue  gates  with  sapphires  glow, 

More  glory  yet  unmeet  to  know. 

gleid]  spark  glow.  elyed]  vanished. 

588 


JAMES  HOGG 

They  bore  her  far  to  a  mountain  green, 
To  see  what  mortal  never  had  seen ; 
And  they  seated  her  high  on  a  purple  sward, 
And  bade  her  heed  what  she  saw  and  heard, 
And  note  the  changes  the  spirits  wrought, 
For  now  she  lived  in  the  land  of  thought. 
She  look'd,  and  she  saw  nor  sun  nor  skies, 
But  a  crystal  dome  of  a  thousand  dyes : 
She  look'd,  and  she  saw  nae  land  aright, 
But  an  endless  whirl  of  glory  and  light : 
And  radiant  beings  went  and  came, 
Far  swifter  than  wind,  or  the  linked  flame. 
She  hid  her  e'en  frae  the  dazzling  view ; 
She  look'd  again,  and  the  scene  was  new. 

She  saw  a  sun  on  a  summer  sky, 

And  clouds  of  amber  sailing  bye ; 

A  lovely  land  beneath  her  lay, 

And  that  land  had  glens  and  mountains  gray ; 

And  that  land  had  valleys  and  hoary  piles, 

And  marled  seas,  and  a  thousand  isles. 

Its  fields  were  speckled,  its  forests  green, 

And  its  lakes  were  all  of  the  dazzling  sheen, 

Like  magic  mirrors,   where  slumbering  lay 

The  sun  and  the  sky  and  the  cloudlet  gray ; 

Which  heaved  and  trembled,  and  gently  swung, 

On  every  shore  they  seem'd  to  be  hung; 

For  there  they  were  seen  on  their  downward  plain 

A  thousand  times  and  a  thousand  again; 

In  winding  lake  and  placid  firth, 

Little  peaceful  heavens  in  the  bosom  of  earth. 

marled]  variegated,  parti-coloured. 

.589 


JAMES  HOGG 

Kilmeny  sigh'd  and  seem'd  to  grieve, 

For  she  found  her  heart  to  that  land  did  cleave; 

She  saw  the  corn  wave  on  the  vale, 

She  saw  the  deer  run  down  the  dale ; 

She  saw  the  plaid  and  the  broad  claymore, 

And  the  brows  that  the  badge  of  freedom  bore ; 

And  she  thought  she  had  seen  the  land  before. 

She  saw  a  lady  sit  on  a  throne, 
The  fairest  that  ever  the  sun  shone  on ! 
A  lion  lick'd  her  hand  of  milk, 
And  she  held  him  in  a  leish  of  silk ; 
And  a  leifu'  maiden  stood  at  her  knee, 
With  a  silver  wand  and  melting  e'e; 
Her  sovereign  shield  till  love  stole  in, 
And  poison'd  all  the  fount  within. 

Then  a  gruff  untoward  bedesman  came, 

And  hundit  the  lion  on  his  dame  ; 

And  the  guardian  maid  wi'  the  dauntless  e'e, 

She  dropp'd  a  tear,  and  left  her  knee ; 

And  she  saw  till  the  queen  frae  the  lion  fled, 

Till  the  bonniest  flower  of  the  world  lay  dead; 

A  coffin  was  set  on  a  distant  plain, 

And  she  saw  the  red  blood  fall  like  rain ; 

Then  bonnie  Kilmeny's  heart  grew  sair, 

And  she  turn'd  away,  and  could  look  nae  mair. 

Then  the  gruff  grim  carle  girn'd  amain, 

And  they  trampled  him  down,  but  he  rose  again ; 

And  he  baited  the  lion  to  deeds  of  weir, 

Till  he  lapp'd  the  blood  to  the  kingdom  dear; 

leifu']  lone,  wistful.  girn'd]  grinned.  weir]  war. 

.•9° 


JAMES  HOGG 

And  weening  his  head  was  danger-preef, 
When  crown'd  with  the  rose  and  clover  leaf, 
He  gowl'd  at  the  carle,  and  chased  him  away 
To  feed  wi'  the  deer  on  the  mountain  gray. 
He  gowl'd  at  the  carle,   and  geck'd  at  Heaven, 
But  his  mark  was  set,  and  his  arles  given. 
Kilmeny  a  while  her  e'en  withdrew; 
She  look'd  again,  and  the  scene  was  new. 

She  saw  before  her  fair  unfurl'd 

One  half  of  all  the  glowing  world, 

Where  oceans  roll'd,  and  rivers  ran, 

To  bound  the  aims  of  sinful  man. 

She  saw  a  people,  fierce  and  fell, 

Burst  frae  their  bounds  like  fiends  of  hell ; 

There  lilies  grew,   and  the  eagle  flew ; 

And  she  herked  on  her  ravening  crew, 

Till  the  cities  and  towers  were  wrapp'd  in  a  blaze, 

And  the  thunder  it  roar'd  o'er  the  lands  and  the  seas. 

The  widows  they  wail'd,  and  the  red  blood  ran, 

And  she  threaten'd  an  end  to  the  race  of  man ; 

She  never  lened,   nor  stood  in  awe, 

Till  caught  by  the  lion's  deadly  paw. 

O,  then  the  eagle  swink'd  for  life, 

And  brainzell'd  up  a  mortal  strife  ; 

But  flew  she  north,  or  flew  she  south, 

She  met  wi'  the  gowl  o'  the  lion's  mouth. 

With  a  mooted  wing  and  waefu*  maen, 
The  eagle  sought  her  eiry  again ; 
But  lang  may  she  cower  in  her  bloody  nest, 
And  lang,  lang  sleek  her  wounded  breast, 
gowl'd]  howled,  growled.  arles]  money  paid  on  striking  a 

bargain  ;  fig.  a  beating.          lencd]  crouched.          swink'd]  laboured, 

brainzell'd]  stirred,  beat.  mooted]  moulted. 


JAMES  HOGG 

Before  she  sey  another  flight, 

To  play  wi'  the  norland  lion's  might. 

But  to  sing  the  sights   Kilmeny  saw, 

So  far  surpassing  nature's  law, 

The  singer's  voice  wad  sink  away, 

And  the  string  of  his  harp  wad  cease  to  play. 

But  she  saw  till  the  sorrows  of  man  were  bye, 

And  all  was  love  and  harmony ; 

Till  the  stars  of  heaven  fell  calmly  away, 

Like  flakes  of  snaw  on  a  winter  day. 

Then  Kilmeny  begg'd  again  to  see 

The  friends  she  had  left  in  her  own  countrye ; 

To  tell  of  the  place  where  she  had  been, 

And  the  glories  that  lay  in  the  land  unseen ; 

To  warn  the  living  maidens  fair, 

The  loved  of  Heaven,  the  spirits'  care, 

That  all  whose  minds  unmeled  remain 

Shall  bloom  in  beauty  when  time  is  gane. 

With  distant  music,   soft  and  deep, 

They  lull'd   Kilmeny  sound  asleep ; 

And  when  she  awaken'd,  she  lay  her  lane, 

All  happ'd  with  flowers,  in  the  green- wood  wene. 

When  seven  lang  years  had  come  and  fled, 

When  grief  was  calm,  and  hope  was  dead; 

When  scarce  was  remember'd  Kilmeny's  name, 

Late,  late  in  a  gloamin'   Kilmeny  came  hame ! 

And  O,  her  beauty  was  fair  to  see, 

But  still  and  steadfast  was  her  e'e ! 

Such  beauty  bard  may  never  declare, 

For  there  was  no  pride  nor  passion  there ; 

sey]  essay.  unmeled]  unblemished.  her  lane]  alone,  by 

herself. 


JAMES  HOGG 

And  the  soft  desire  of  maiden's  e'en 

In  that  mild  face  could  never  be  seen. 

Her  seymar  was  the  lily  flower, 

And  her  cheek  the  moss-rose  in  the  shower ; 

And  her  voice  like  the  distant  melodye, 

That  floats  along  the  twilight  sea. 

But  she  loved  to  raike  the  lanely  glen, 

And  keeped  afar  frae  the  haunts  of  men ; 

Her  holy  hymns  unheard  to  sing, 

To  suck  the  flowers,  and  drink  the  spring. 

But  wherever  her  peaceful  form  appear'd, 

The  wild  beasts  of  the  hill  were  cheer'd  ; 

The  wolf  play'd  blythly  round  the  field, 

The  lordly  byson  low'd  and  kneel'd ; 

The  dun  deer  woo'd  with  manner  bland, 

And  cower'd  aneath  her  lily  hand. 

And  when  at  even  the  woodlands  rung, 

When  hymns  of  other  worlds  she  sung 

In  ecstasy  of  sweet  devotion, 

O,  then  the  glen  was  all  in  motion ! 

The  wild  beasts  of  the  forest  came, 

Broke  from  their  bughts  and  faulds  the  tame, 

And  goved  around,   charm'd  and  amazed  ; 

Even  the  dull  cattle  croon'd  and  gazed, 

And  murmur'd  and  look'd  with  anxious  pain 

For  something  the  mystery  to  explain. 

The  buzzard  came  with  the  throstle-cock ; 

The  corby  left  her  houf  in  the  rock  ; 

The  blackbird  alang  wi'  the  eagle  flew; 

The  hind  came  tripping  o'er  the  dew ; 

seymar]  =  cymar,  a  slight  covering.  raike]  range,  wander, 

bughts]  milking-pens.  goved]  stared,  gazed.  corbyj  raven, 

houf]  haunt. 

593 


JAMES  HOGG 

The  wolf  and  the  kid  their  raike  began, 

And  the  tod,  and  the  lamb,  and  the  leveret  ran ; 

The  hawk  and  the  hern  attour  them  hung, 

And  the  merle  and  the  mavis  forhooy'd  their  young : 

And  all  in  a  peaceful  ring  were  hurl'd; 

It  was  like  an  eve  in  a  sinless  world ! 

When  a  month  and  a  day  had  come  and  gane, 

Kilmeny  sought  the  green-wood  wene ; 

There  laid  her  down  on  the  leaves  sae  green, 

And  Kilmeny  on  earth  was  never  mair  seen. 

But  O,  the  words  that  fell  from  her  mouth 

Were  words  of  wonder,  and  words  of  truth  ! 

But  all  the  land  were  in  fear  and  dread, 

For  they  kendna  whether  she  was  living  or  dead. 

It  wasna  her  hame,  and  she  couldna  remain ; 

She  left  this  world  of  sorrow  and  pain, 

And  return'd  to  the  land  of  thought  again. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 
Luc/ 

W'  '  ,77o-,85o 

STRANGE  fits  of  passion  have  I  known: 
And  I  will  dare  to  tell, 
But  in  the  lover's  ear  alone, 

What  once  to  me  befell. 
When  she  I  loved  look'd  every  day 

Fresh  as  a  rose  in  June, 
I  to  her  cottage  bent  my  way, 

Beneath  an  evening  moon. 

^14.  raike]  ramble.  tod]  fox.  attour]  out  Over. 

forhooy'd]  neglected. 

594 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Upon  the  moon  I  fix'd  my  eye, 

All  over  the  wide  lea ; 

With  quickening  pace  my  horse  drew  nigh 

Those  paths  so  dear  to  me. 

And  now  we  reach'd  the  orchard-plot ; 
And,   as  we  climb'd  the  hill, 
The  sinking  moon  to  Lucy's  cot 
Came  near  and  nearer  still. 

In  one  of  those  sweet  dreams  I  slept, 
Kind  Nature's  gentlest  boon ! 
And  all  the  while  my  eyes  I  kept 
On  the  descending  moon. 

My  horse  moved  on ;    hoof  after  hoof 
He  raised,  and  never  stopp'd : 
When  down  behind  the  cottage  roof, 
At  once,  the  bright  moon  dropp'd. 

What  fond  and  wayward  thoughts  will  slide 

Into  a  lover's  head ! 

'  O  mercy !  '    to  myself  I  cried, 

'  If  Lucy  should  be  dead  ! ' 

yi6.  it 

CHE  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 
^      Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  Maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise 
And  very  few  to  love: 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye! 
Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be ; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and  oh, 

The  difference  to  me  ! 


T   TRAVEL L'D  among  unknown  men, 

In  lands  beyond  the  sea ; 
Nor,   England  !    did  I  know  till  then 
What  love  I  bore  to  thee. 

'Tis  past,   that  melancholy  dream ! 

Nor  will  I  quit  thy  shore 
A  second  time  ;    for  still  I   seenv 

To  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Among  thy  mountains  did  I  feel 

The  joy  of  my  desire; 
And  she  I  cherish'd  turn'd  her  wheel 

Beside  an  English  fire. 

Thy  mornings  show'd,   thy  nights  conceal'd, 

The  bowers  where  Lucy  play'd ; 
And  thine  too  is  the  last  green  field 

That  Lucy's  eyes  survey'd. 

.  iv 

THREE  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower; 
Then  Nature  said,  'A  lovelier  flower 
On  earth  was  never  sown ; 
This  child  I  to  myself  will  take ; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 

A  lady  of  my  own. 
596 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

'  Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 

Both  law  and  impulse  :    and  with  me 

The  girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 
In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 
Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 
To  kindle  or  restrain. 

'  She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 

Or  up  the  mountain  springs; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 

Of  mute  insensate  things. 

'The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 
To  her;    for  her  the  willow  bend; 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 
Even  in  the  motions  of  the  storm 
Grace  that  shall  mould  the  maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 

'The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 
To  her;    and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 
Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 
And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face. 

'And  vital  feelings  of  delight 

Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell ; 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 
While  she  and  I  together  live 

Here  in  this  happy  dell.' 

597 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Thus  Nature  spake — The  work  was  done — 
How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run ! 

She  died,  and  left  to  me 
This  heath,  this  calm  and  quiet  scene; 
The  memory  of  what  has  been, 

And  never  more  will  be. 

f/p.  V 

A    SLUMBER  did  my  spirit  seal; 
•**'     I  had  no  human  fears : 
She  seem'd  a  thing  that  could  not  feel 

The  touch  of  earthly  years. 
No  motion  has  she  now,  no  force ; 

She  neither  hears  nor  sees; 
Roll'd  round  in  earth's  diurnal  course, 
With  rocks,  and  stones,  and  trees. 

?2o.        Upon  Westminster  Bridge 

t*ARTH  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair: 
*~^     Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 

A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty: 
This  City  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning ;    silent,  bare, 

Ships,  towers,   domes,   theatres,   and  temples  He 

Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky; 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 

In  his  first  splendour  valley,   rock,  or  hill; 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep  ! 

The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will: 
Dear  God !    the  very  houses  seem  asleep ; 

And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still! 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

?2l.          Evening  on  Calais  Beach 

TT  is  a  beauteous   evening,  calm  and  free, 

*•      The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun 
Breathless  with  adoration ;    the  broad  sun 

Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity ; 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  is  on  the  sea: 
Listen !    the  mighty  Being  is  awake, 
And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 

A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear  Child !    dear  Girl !    that  walkest  with  me  here, 
If  thou  appear  untouch'd  by  solemn  thought, 
Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine : 

Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year ; 
And  worshipp'st  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 

522.   On  the  Extinction  of  the  Venetian 
Republic,  1802 

/     \NCE  did  she  hold  the  gorgeous  East  in  fee; 
^-^      And  was  the  safeguard  of  the  West :   the  worth 

Of  Venice  did  not  fall  below  her  birth, 
Venice,   the  eldest  Child  of  Liberty. 
She  was  a  maiden  City,   bright  and  free ; 

No  guile  seduced,   no  force  could  violate ; 

And,  when  she  took  unto  herself  a  mate, 
She  must  espouse  the  everlasting  Sea. 
And  what  if  she  had  seen  those  glories  fade, 

Those  titles  vanish,  and  that  strength  decay; 
Yet  shall  some  tribute  of  regret  be  paid 

When  her  long  life  hath  reach'd  its  final  day: 
Men  are  we,  and  must  grieve  when  even  the  Shade 

Of  that  which  once  was  great  is  pass'd  away. 

599 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

England,  1802 
12$.  i 

f~\   FRIEND  !  I  know  not  which  way  I  must  look 

^-^     For  comfort,  being,  as  I  am,  opprest, 
To  think  that  now  our  life  is  only  drest 

For  show ;    mean  handy-work  of  craftsman,  cook, 

Or  groom! — We  must  run  glittering  like  a  brook 
In  the  open  sunshine,  or  we  are  unblest : 
The  wealthiest  man  among  us  is  the  best: 

No  grandeur  now  in  nature  or  in  book 

Delights  us.     Rapine,  avarice,  expense, 
This  is  idolatry ;    and  these  we  adore : 
Plain  living  and  high  thinking  are  no  more: 
The  homely  beauty  of  the  good  old  cause 

Is  gone ;    our  peace,  our  fearful  innocence, 
And  pure  religion  breathing  household  laws. 

5-24.  // 

A^ILTON!    thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour: 
***•      England  hath  need  of  thee:    she  is  a  fen 

Of  stagnant  waters:  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 
Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 

Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men ; 

O  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again, 
And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power! 
Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart; 

Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea: 

Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,   free, 

So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way, 
In  cheerful  godliness;  and  yet  thy  heart 

The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 

600 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


men  have  been  among  us;  hands  that  penn'd 
And  tongues  that  utter'd  wisdom  —  better  none: 

The  later  Sidney,   Marvel,   Harrington, 
Young  Vane,  and  others  who  call'd  Milton  friend. 
These  moralists  could  act  and  comprehend: 

They  knew  how  genuine  glory  was  put  on  ; 

Taught  us  how  rightfully  a  nation  shone 
In  splendour:    what  strength  was,  that  would  not  bend 
But  in  magnanimous  meekness.      France,  'tis  strange, 

Hath  brought  forth  no  such  souls  as  we  had  then. 
Perpetual  emptiness  !    unceasing  change  ! 

No  single  volume  paramount,  no  code, 

No  master  spirit,   no  determined  road; 

But  equally  a  want  of  books  and  men] 


IT  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  flood 

Of  British  freedom,   which,  to  the  open  sea 

Of  the  world's  praise,   from  dark  antiquity 
Hath  flow'd,    'with  pomp  of  waters,   unwithstood,'  __ 
Roused  though  it  be  full  often  to  a  mood 

Which  spurns  the  check  of  salutary  bands,  — 

That  this  most  famous  stream  in  bogs  and  sands 
Should  perish  ;    and  to  evil  and  to  good 
Be  lost  for  ever.     In  our  halls  is  hung 

Armoury  of  the  invincible  Knights  of  old: 
We  must  be  free  or  die,  who  speak  the  tongue 

That  Shakespeare  spake;    the  faith  and  morals  hold 
Which  Milton  held.  —  In  everything  we  are  sprung 

Of  Earth's  first  blood,  have  titles  manifold. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


VW"HEN  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed 
^^       Great  Nations,  how  ennobling  thoughts  depart 

When  men  change  swords  for  ledgers,  and  desert 
The  student's  bower  for  gold,  some  fears  unnamed 
I  had,  my  Country  —  am  I  to  be  blamed  ? 

Now,  when  I  think  of  thee,  and  what  thou  art, 

Verily,  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart, 
Of  those  unfilial  fears  I  am  ashamed. 
For  dearly  must  we  prize  thee  ;  we  who  find 

In  thee  a  bulwark  for  the  cause  of  men  ; 

And  I  by  my  affection  was  beguiled  : 

What  wonder  if  a  Poet  now  and  then, 
Among  the  many  movements  of  his  mind, 

Felt  for  thee  as  a  lover  or  a  child! 


728.  The  Solitary  Reaper 

DEHOLD  her,  single  in  the  field, 
*J     Yon  solitary  Highland  Lass! 
Reaping  and  singing  by   herself; 

Stop  here,  or  gently  pass  ! 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 
And  sings  a  melancholy  strain  ; 
O  listen  !    for  the  Vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  Nightingale  did  ever  chaunt 

More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands 

Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt, 

Among  Arabian  sands  : 
602 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

A  voice  so  thrilling  ne'er  was  heard 
In  spring-time  from  the  Cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 
Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings? — 
Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 

For  old,   unhappy,   far-off  things, 
And  battles  long  ago : 

Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 

Familiar  matter  of  to-day  ? 

Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 

That  has  been,  and  may  be  again? 

Whate'er  the  theme,   the  Maiden  sang 
As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending: 

I  saw  her  singing  at  her  work, 
And  o'er  the  sickle  bending;— 

I  listen'd,   motionless  and  still ; 

And,  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill, 

The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore, 

Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 

Perfect  Woman 

CHE  was  a  phantom  of  delight 

^     When  first  she  gleam'd  upon  my  sight; 

A  lovely  apparition,   sent 

To  be  a  moment's  ornament; 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair ; 

Like  twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair; 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 

From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn; 

A  dancing  shape,   an  image  gay, 

To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  Spirit,  yet  a  Woman  too  ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet; 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food ; 

For  transient  sorrows,   simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles, 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine ; 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  betwixt  life  and  death; 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,   foresight,   strength,  and  skill; 
A  perfect  Woman,  nobly  plann'd, 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command ; 
And  yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  angelic  light. 


;jo.  Daffodils 

T   WANDER'D  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and   hills_ 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host,  of  golden  daffodils ; 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 

And  twinkle  on  the  Milky  Way, 
6.14 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

They  stretch'd  in  never-ending  line 

Along  the  margin  of  a  bay  : 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 
Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee  : 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay, 
In  such  a  jocund  company  : 

I  gazed  —  and  gazed  —  but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  He 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude; 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 


3/.  Ode  to 

STERN  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God! 
O  Duty  !    if  that  name  thou  love, 
Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 
To  check  the  erring  and  reprove  ; 
Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe  ; 
From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free  ; 
And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity  ! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them  ;    who,  in  love  and  truth, 
Where  no  misgiving  is,   rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth: 

605 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Glad  hearts!    without  reproach  or  blot; 
Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not: 

0,  if  through  confidence  misplaced 

They  fail,  thy  saving  arms,  dread  Power !    around  them  cast. 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 

And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 

When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 

And  joy  its  own  security. 

And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 

Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 

Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed  ; 

Yet  seek  thy  firm  support,  according  to  their  need. 

1,  loving  freedom,  and  untried; 
No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 
Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide, 

Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust: 

And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 

Thy  timely  mandate,   I  deferr'd 

The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray ; 

But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I  may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul, 

Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

I  supplicate  for  thy  control ; 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought. 

Me  this  uncharter'd  freedom  tires ; 

I  feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires; 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name, 

I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same. 

Yet  not  the  less  would  I  throughout 
Still  act  according  to  the  voice 
606 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Of  my  own  wish;    and  feel  past  doubt 

That  my  submissiveness  was  choice: 

Not  seeking  in  the  school  of  pride 

For  'precepts  over  dignified,' 

Denial  and  restraint  I  prize 

No  farther  than  they  breed  a  second  Will  more  wise. 

Stern  Lawgiver !    yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant , grace ; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face : 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds, 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong ; 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through  Thee,  are  fresh  and 
strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power ! 

I  call  thee :    I  myself  commend 

Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour; 

O,  iet  my  weakness  have  an  end! 

Give  unto  me,   made  lowly  wise, 

The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice ; 

The  confidence  of  reason  give ; 

And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  bondman  let  me  live! 

/j2.  The  Jtainbow 

AT Y  heart  leaps  up  when   I   behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky : 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began; 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man; 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 
Or  let  me  die! 

607 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man ; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

The  Sonnet 
f33-  i 

NT  UNS  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow  room ; 
*•          And  hermits  are  contented  with  their  cells. 

And  students  with  their  pensive  citadels  ; 
Maids  at  the  wheel,   the  weaver  at  his  loom, 
Sit  blithe  and  happy;    bees  that  soar  for  bloom, 
High  as  the  highest  peak  of  Furness  fells, 
Will  murmur  by  the  hour  in  foxglove  bells: 
In  truth  the  prison  unto  which  we  doom 
Ourselves  no  prison  is :    and  hence  for  me, 
In  sundry  moods,   'twas  pastime  to  be  bound 
Within  the  Sonnet's  scanty  plot  of  ground ; 
Pleased  if  some  souls  (for  such  there  needs  must  be) 
Who  have  felt  the  weight  of  too  much  liberty, 
Should  find  brief  solace  there,   as  I  have  found. 

J34-  " 

CCORN  not  the  Sonnet;    Critic,  you  have  frown'd, 
^     Mindless  of  its  just  honours ;    with  this  key 

Shakespeare  unlock'd  his  heart;    the  melody 
Of  this  small  lute  gave  ease  to  Petrarch's  wound ; 
A  thousand  times  this  pipe  did  Tasso  sound ; 

With  it  Camoens  sooth 'd  an  exile's  grief; 

The  Sonnet  glitter'd  a  gay  myrtle  leaf 
Amid  the  cypress  with  which  Dante  crown'd 
His  visionary  brow :    a  glow-worm  lamp, 

It  cheer'd  mild  Spenser,  call'd  from  Faery-land 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

To  struggle  through  dark  ways ;    and  when  a  damp 

Fell  round  the  path  of  Milton,  in  his  hand 
The  Thing  became  a  trumpet;    whence  he  blew 
Soul-animating  strains — alas,  too  few  ! 


jW-  The 

HTHE  world  is  too  much  with  us;    late  and  soon, 
A       Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers ; 

Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon  ! 
This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon; 

The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 

And  are  up-gather'd   now  like  sleeping  flowers; 
For  this,  for  everything,   we  are  out  of  tune ; 
It  moves  us  not. — Great  God!    I'd  rather  be 

A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 

Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea; 

Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 


"T 


Intimations  of  Immortality  from  Recollections  of 
Early   Childhood 

HERE  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 

To  me  did  seem 
Apparel]  'd  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 

x  600 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore; — 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 

By  night  or  day, 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more. 

The  rainbow  comes  and  goes, 

And  lovely  is  the  rose; 

The  moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare ; 

Waters  on  a  starry  night 

Are  beautiful  and  fair; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth  ; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  pass'd  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief: 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  again  am  strong: 

The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep; 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong; 
I  hear  the  echoes  through  the  mountains  throng, 
The  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay; 

Land  and  sea 
Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 

And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  beast  keep  holiday; — 

Thou  Child  of  Joy, 

Shout    round    me,    let    me    hear    thy    shouts,    thou    happy 
Shepherd-boy ! 
610 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Ye  blessed  creatures,   I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make;    I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee; 

My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 
My  head  hath  its  coronal, 
The  fullness  of  your  bliss,   I  feel — I  feel  it  all. 

0  evil  day !    if  I  were  sullen 
While  Earth  herself  is  adorning, 

This  sweet  May-morning, 
And  the  children  are  culling 

On  every  side, 

In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 
Fresh  flowers ;    while  the  sun  shines  warm, 
And  the  babe  leaps   up  on  his  mother's  arm:  — 

1  hear,   I  hear,   with  joy  I  hear ! 
— But  there  's  a  tree,  of  many,  one, 

A  single  field  which  I  have  look'd  upon, 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone: 

The  pansy  at  my  feet 

Doth  the  same  tale  repeat: 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam? 
Where  is  it  now,   the  glory  and  the  dream? 


Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting : 
The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 
And  cometh  from  afar : 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home: 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy ! 

61 1 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy, 
But  he  beholds  the  light,   and  whence  it  flows, 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy; 

The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 
Must  travel,   still  is  Nature's  priest, 
And  by  the  vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended; 
At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind, 
And,  even  with  something  of  a  mother's  mind, 
And  no  unworthy  aim, 

The  homely  nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  foster-child,  her  inmate  Man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 
A  six  years'  darling  of  a  pigmy  size! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes ! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art; 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral ; 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song: 

Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife; 
612 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  actor  cons  another  part; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  'humorous  stage* 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  soul's  immensity ; 
Thou  best  philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,   read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  mind, — 

Mighty  prophet !    Seer  blest ! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest, 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave ; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 
Broods  like  the  Day,  a  master  o'er  a  slave, 
A  presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by ; 

To  whom  the  grave 
Is  but  a  lonely  bed  without  the  sense  or  sight 

Of  day  or  the  warm  light, 
A  place  of  thought  where  we  in  waiting  lie ; 
Thou  little  Child,   yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born   freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife  ? 
Full  soon  thy  soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 

613 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight, 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life! 

O  joy!  that  in  our  embers 
Is  something  that  doth  live, 
That  nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive ! 

The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction :    not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest — 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast 
Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,   vanishings ; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  Nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised: 
But  for  those  first  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain-light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master-light  of  all  our  seeing  ; 
Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence:    truths  that  wake, 

To  perish  never : 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavour, 

Nor  Man  nor  Boy, 
614 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy ! 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather 

Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 

Which  brought  us  hither, 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 

Then  sing,  ye  birds,   sing,   sing  a  joyous  song! 
And  let  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound ! 
We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 

Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 

Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May ! 

What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 
Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  my  sight, 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendour  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower; 

We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 

Strength  in  what  remains  behind ; 

In  the  primal   sympathy 

Which  having  been  must  ever  be ; 

In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 

Out  of  human  suffering ; 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

And  O  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,   Hills,  and  Groves, 

Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves ! 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might ; 

I  only  have  relinquish'd  one  delight 

6rs 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 
I  love  the  brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret, 
Even  more  than  when  I  tripp'd  lightly  as  they ; 
The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  Day 

Is  lovely  yet; 

The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  colouring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 


CURPRISED  by  joy— impatient  as  the  Wind 

^     I  turned  to  share  the  transport — O  !    with  whom 

But  Thee,  deep  buried  in  the  silent  tomb, 
That  spot  which  no  vicissitude  can  find? 
Love,  faithful  love,   recall'd  thee  to  my  mind — 

But  how  could  I  forget  thee  ?    Through  what  power, 

Even  for  the  least  division  of  an  hour, 
Have  I  been  so  beguiled  as  to  be  blind 
To  my  most  grievous  loss  ? — That  thought's  return 

Was  the  worst  pang  that  sorrow  ever  bore, 
Save  one,  one  only,  when  I  stood  forlorn, 

Knowing  my  heart's  best  treasure  was  no  more; 
That  neither  present  time,  nor  years  unborn 

Could  to  my  sight  that  heavenly  face  restore. 


616 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

f$8.  Maledictory  Sonnet  to  the  River  T>uddon 

T   THOUGHT  of  Thee,  my  partner  and  my  guide, 
As  being  pass'd  away. — Vain  sympathies ! 

For,  backward,  Duddon !    as  I  cast  my  eyes, 
I   see  what  was,  and  is,  and  will  abide ; 
Still  glides  the  Stream,  and  shall  for  ever  glide ; 

The  Form  remains,  the  Function  never  dies ; 

While  we,  the  brave,  the  mighty,  and  the  wise, 
We  Men,  who  in  our  morn  of  youth  defied 
The  elements,  must  vanish ; — be  it  so  ! 

Enough,  if  something  from  our  hands  have  power 

To  live,  and  act,  and  serve  the  future  hour ; 
And  if,  as  toward  the  silent  tomb  we  go,  [dowef,- 

Through   love,  through  hope,  and  faith's  transcendent 
We  feel  that  we  are  greater  than  we  know. 

?3  p.  Mutability 

"CROM  low  to  high  doth  dissolution  climb, 
*•      And  sink  from  high  to  low,  along  a  scale 

Of  awful  notes,   whose  concord  shall  not  fail; 
A  musical  but  melancholy  chime, 
Which  they  can  hear  who  meddle  not  with  crime, 

Nor  avarice,  nor  over-anxious  care. 

Truth  fails  not;    but  her  outward  forms  that  bear 
The  longest  date  do  melt  like  frosty  rime, 
That  in  the  morning  whiten'd  hill  and  plain 
And  is  no  more;    drop  like  the  tower  sublime 

Of  yesterday,  which  royally  did  wear 
His  crown  of  weeds,  but  could  not  even  sustain 

Some  casual  shout  that  broke  the  silent  air, 
Or  the  unimaginable  touch  of  Time. 

x  3  617 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

f^o.  The  Trosachs 

THERE  's  not  a  nook  within  this  solemn  Pass 
But  were  an  apt  confessional  for  one 

Taught  by  his  summer  spent,  his  autumn  gone, 
That  Life  is  but  a  tale  of  morning  grass 
Wither'd  at  eve.     From  scenes  of  art  which  chase 

That  thought  away,  turn,  and  with  watchful  eyes 

Feed  it  'mid  Nature's  old  felicities, 
Rocks,  rivers,  and  smooth  lakes  more  clear  than  glass 
Untouch'd,  unbreathed  upon.     Thrice  happy  quest, 

If  from  a  golden  perch  of  aspen  spray 

(October's  workmanship  to  rival  May) 
The  pensive  warbler  of  the  ruddy  breast 

That  moral  sweeten  by  a  heaven-taught  lay, 
Lulling  the  year,  with  all  its  cares,  to  rest ! 

1-41.  Speak ! 

VVTHY  art  thou  silent !      Is  thy  love  a  plant 
**       Of  such  weak  fibre  that  the  treacherous  air 

Of  absence  withers  what  was  once  so  fair? 
Is  there  no  debt  to  pay,  no  boon  to  grant? 
Yet  have  my  thoughts  for  thee  been  vigilant — 

Bound  to  thy  service  with  unceasing  care, 
The  mind's  least  generous  wish  a  mendicant 

For  naught  but  what  thy  happiness  could  spare. 
Speak — though  this  soft  warm  heart,  once  free  to  hold 

A  thousand  tender  pleasures,  thine  and  mine, 
Be  left  more  desolate,   more  dreary  cold 

Than  a  forsaken  bird's-nest  fill'd  with  snow 

'Mid  its  own  bush  of  leafless  eglantine — 

Speak,  that  my  torturing  doubts  their  end  may  know ! 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

742.  Troud  Matsie 

1771-1832 
DROUD  Maisie  is  in  the  wood, 

*•        Walking  so  early; 
Sweet  Robin  sits  on  the  bush, 
Singing  so  rarely. 

'Tell  me,   thou  bonny  bird, 

When  shall  I  marry  me  ?  ' 
—  'When  six  braw  gentlemen 

Kirkward  shall  carry  ye.' 

'Who  makes  the  bridal  bed, 

Birdie,  say  truly?' 
—'The  grey-headed  sexton 

That  delves  the  grave  duly. 

'The  glow-worm  o'er  grave  and  stone 

Shall  light  thee  steady; 
The  owl  from  the  steeple  sing 

Welcome,  proud  lady  !  ' 


Brignall 

f~\     BRIGNALL  banks  are  wild  and  fair, 
^•^7     And  Greta  woods  are  green, 
And  you  may  gather  garlands  there, 

Would  grace  a  summer  queen: 
And  as  I  rode  by  Dalton  Hall, 

Beneath  the  turrets  high, 
A  Maiden  on  the  castle  wall 

Was  singing  merrily:  — 

619 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

*O,  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 
And  Greta  woods  are  green! 

I'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there 
Than  reign  our  English  Queen.' 

'  If,  Maiden,  thou  wouldst  wend  with  me 

To  leave  both  tower  and  town, 
Thou  first  must  guess  what  life  lead  we, 

That  dwell  by  dale  and  down : 
And  if  thou  canst  that  riddle  read, 

As  read  full  well  you  may, 
Then  to  the  green -wood  shall  thou  speed 

As  blithe  as  Queen  of  May.' 

Yet  sung  she,  'Brignall  banks  are  fair, 
And  Greta  woods  are  green ! 

I'd  rather  rove  with   Edmund  there 
Than  reign  our  English  Queen. 

*  I  read  you  by  your  bugle  horn 

And  by  your  palfrey  good, 
I  read  you  for  a  Ranger  sworn 

To  keep  the  King's  green-wood.' 
'A   Ranger,   Lady,  winds  his  horn, 

And  'tis  at  peep  of  light; 
His  blast  is  heard  at  merry  morn, 

And  mine  at  dead  of  night.' 

Yet  sung  she,   '  Brignall  banks  are  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  gay! 
I  would  I  were  with  Edmund  there, 

To  reign  his  Queen  of  May ! 

'With  burnish 'd  brand  and  musketoon 

So  gallantly  you  come, 
620 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

I  read  you  for  a  bold  Dragoon, 
That  lists  the  tuck  of  drum/ 

'  I  list  no  more  the  tuck  of  drum, 
No  more  the  trumpet  hear; 

But  when  the  beetle  sounds  his  hum, 
My  comrades  take  the  spear. 

'And  0!    though  Brignall  banks  be  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  be  gay, 
Yet  mickle  must  the  maiden  dare, 

Would  reign  my  Queen  of  May! 
*  Maiden  1    a  nameless  life  I  lead, 

A  nameless  death  I'll  die; 
The  fiend  whose  lantern  lights  the  mead 

Were  better  mate  than  I ! 
And  when  I'm  with  my  comrades  met 

Beneath  the  green-wood  bough, 
What  once  we  were  we  all  forget, 

Nor  think  what  we  are  now.' 
Chorus.  Yet  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green, 
And  you  may  gather  flowers  there 

Would  grace  a  summer  queen. 

744.  Lucy  Ashton's  Song 

T   OOK  not  thou  on  beauty's  charming; 
*"*     Sit  thou  still  when  kings  are  arming; 
Taste  not  when  the  wine-cup  glistens ; 
Speak  not  when  the  people  listens ; 
Stop  thine  ear  against  the  singer ; 
From  the  red  gold  keep  thy  finger; 
Vacant  heart  and  hand  and  eye, 
Easy  live  and  quiet  die. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


.  Answer 

SOUND,  sound  the  clarion,  fill  the  fifel 
To  all  the  sensual  world  proclaim, 
One  crowded  hour  of  glorious  life 
Is  worth  an  age  without  a  name. 


146.  The  Rover's  Adieu 

AWEARY  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid, 
A  weary  lot  is  thine! 
To  pull  the  thorn  thy  brow  to  braid, 

And  press  the  rue  for  wine. 
A  lightsome  eye,  a  soldier's  mien, 

A  feather  of  the  blue, 
A  doublet  of  the  Lincoln  green — 
No  more  of  me  ye  knew, 

My  Love! 
No  more  of  me  ye  knew. 

'This  morn  is  merry  June,   I  trow, 

The  rose  is  budding  fain ; 
But  she  shall  bloom  in  winter  snow 

Ere  we  two  meet  again.' 
— He  turn'd  his  charger  as  he  spake 

Upon  the  river  shore, 
He  gave  the  bridle-reins  a  shake, 

Said  '  Adieu  for  evermore, 

My  Love! 
And  adieu  for  evermore.' 


623 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 
'Patriotism 

*  I*  Innominatut 

DREATHES  there  the  man  with  soul  so  dead, 
*~^     Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 
'  This  is  my  own,  my  native  land  !  ' 

Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burn'd 

As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turn'd 
From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand  ? 

If  such  there  breathe,  go,   mark  him  well  ; 

For  him  no  Minstrel  raptures  swell  ; 

High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 

Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim; 

Despite  those  titles,   power,  and  pelf, 

The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self, 

Living,   shall  forfeit  fair  renown, 

And,  doubly  dying,   shall  go  down 

To  the  vile  dust  from  whence  he  sprung, 

Unwept,  unhonour'd,  and  unsung. 


.  2.  Nelson,   Pitt,   Fox 

'  I  "O  mute  and  to  material  things 
•*•       New  life  revolving  summer  brings  ; 
The  genial  call  dead  Nature  hears, 
And  in  her  glory  reappears. 
But  oh,  my  Country's  wintry  state 
What  second  spring  shall  renovate? 
What  powerful  call  shall  bid  arise 
The  buried  warlike  and  the  wise; 

623 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

The  mind  that  thought  for  Britain's  weal, 

The  hand  that  grasp'd  the  victor  steel? 

The  vernal  sun  new  life  bestows 

Even  on  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  ; 

But  vainly,   vainly  may  he  shine 

Where  glory  weeps  o'er  NELSON'S  shrine  ; 

And  vainly  pierce  the  solemn  gloom 

That  shrouds,   O  PITT,  thy  hallow'd  tomb! 

Deep  graved  in  every  British  heart, 

O  never  let  those  names  depart ! 

Say  to  your  sons, — Lo,  here  his  grave, 

Who  victor  died  on  Gadite  wave  ! 

To  him,  as  to  the  burning  levin, 

Short,  bright,  resistless  course  was  given. 

Where'er  his  country's  foes  were  found 

Was  heard  the  fated  thunder's  sound, 

Till  burst  the  bolt  on  yonder  shore, 

Roll'd,  blazed,  destroy'd — and  was  no  more. 

Nor  mourn  ye  less  his  perish'd  worth, 
Who  bade  the  conqueror  go  forth, 
And  launch'd  that  thunderbolt  of  war 
On  Egypt,   Hafnia,   Trafalgar ; 
Who,  born  to  guide  such  high  emprise, 
For  Britain's  weal  was  early  wise; 
Alas !    to  whom  the  Almighty  gave, 
For  Britain's  sins,  an  early  grave ! 
— His  worth,   who  in  his  mightiest  hour 
A  bauble  held  the  pride  of  power, 
Spurn'd  at  the  sordid  lust  of  pelf, 
And  served  his  Albion  for  herself; 
Who,  when  the  frantic  crowd  amain 
Strain'd  at  subjection's  bursting  rein, 

634 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

O'er  their  wild  mood  full  conquest  gain'd, 

The  pride  he  would  not  crush,   restrain'd, 

Show'd  their  fierce  zeal  a  worthier  cause, 

And  brought  the  freeman's  arm  to  aid  the  freeman's  laws. 

Hadst  thou  but  lived,  though  stripp'd  of  power, 

A  watchman  on  the  lonely  tower, 

Thy  thrilling  trump  had  roused  the  land, 

When  fraud  or  danger  were  at  hand; 

By  thee,  as  by  the  beacon-light, 

Our  pilots  had  kept  course  aright ; 

As  some  proud  column,  though  alone, 

Thy  strength  had  propp'd  the  tottering  throne. 

Now  is  the  stately  column  broke, 

The  beacon-light  is  quench'd  in  smoke, 

The  trumpet's  silver  voice  is  still, 

The  warder  silent  on  the  hill ! 

O  think,  how  to  his  latest  day, 

When  Death,  just  hovering,  claim'd  his  prey. 

With  Palinure's  unalter'd  mood 

Firm  at  his  dangerous  post  he  stood  ; 

Each  call  for  needful  rest  repell'd, 

With  dying  hand  the  rudder  held, 

Till  in  his  fall  with  fateful  sway 

The  steerage  of  the  realm  gave  way. 

Then — while  on  Britain's  thousand  plains 

One  unpolluted  church  remains, 

Whose  peaceful  bells  ne'er  sent  around 

The  bloody  tocsin's  maddening  sound, 

But  still  upon  the  hallow'd  day 

Convoke  the  swains  to  praise  and  pray  ; 

While  faith  and  civil  peace  are  dear, 

6*5 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

Grace  this  cold  marble  with  a  tear : — 
He  who  preserved  them,   PITT,  lies  here! 

Nor  yet  suppress  the  generous  sigh, 

Because  his  rival  slumbers  nigh  ; 

Nor  be  thy  Requicscat  dumb 

Lest  it  be  said  o'er  Fox's  tomb. 

For  talents  mourn,  untimely  lost, 

When  best  employ'd,  and  wanted  most; 

Mourn  genius  high,  and  lore  profound, 

And  wit  that  loved  to  play,  not  wound ; 

And  all  the  reasoning  powers  divine 

To  penetrate,   resolve,  combine ; 

And  feelings  keen,  and  fancy's  glow — 

They  sleep  with  him  who  sleeps  below : 

And,  if  thou  mourn'st  they  could  not  save 

From  error  him  who  owns  this  grave, 

Be  every  harsher  thought  suppress'd, 

And  sacred  be  the  last  long  rest. 

Here,  where  the  end  of  earthly  things 

Lays  heroes,  patriots,  bards,  and  kings; 

Where  stiff  the  hand,  and  still  the  tongue, 

Of  those  who  fought,  and  spoke,  and  sung; 

Here,  where  the  fretted  vaults  prolong 

The  distant  notes  of  holy  song, 

As  if  some  angel  spoke  agen, 

'All  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men'; 

If  ever  from  an  English  heart, 

O,  here  let  prejudice  depart, 

And,  partial  feeling  cast  aside, 

Record  that  Fox  a  Briton  died! 

When  Europe  crouch'd  to  France's  yoke, 

And  Austria  bent,  and  Prussia  broke, 

6a6 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

And  the  firm  Russian's  purpose  brave 
Was  barter'd  by  a  timorous  slave — 
Even  then  dishonour's  peace  he  spurn'd, 
The  sullied  olive-branch  return'd, 
Stood  for  his  country's  glory  fast, 
And  nail'd  her  colours  to  the  mast ! 
Heaven,  to  reward  his  firmness,  gave 
A  portion  in  this  honour'd  grave; 
And  ne'er  held  marble  in  its  trust 
Of  two  such  wondrous  men  the  dust. 

With  more  than  mortal  powers  endow'd, 

How  high  they  soar'd  above  the  crowd! 

Theirs  was  no  common  party  race, 

Jostling  by  dark  intrigue  for  place; 

Like  fabled  gods,  their  mighty  war 

Shook  realms  and  nations  in  its  jar; 

Beneath  each  banner  proud  to  stand, 

Look'd  up  the  noblest  of  the  land, 

Till  through  the  British  world  were  known 

The  names  of  PITT  and  Fox  alone. 

Spells  of  such  force  no  wizard  grave 

E'er  framed  in  dark  Thessalian  cave, 

Though  his  could  drain  the  ocean  dry, 

And  force  the  planets  from  the  sky. 

These  spells  are  spent,   and,   spent  with  these, 

The  wine  of  life  is  on  the  lees. 

Genius,  and  taste,  and  talent  gone, 

For  ever  tomb'd  beneath  the  stone, 

Where — taming  thought  to  human  pride! — 

The  mighty  chiefs  sleep  side  by  side. 

Drop  upon  Fox's  grave  the  tear, 

'Twill  trickle  to  his  rival's  bier  ; 

627 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

O'er  PITT'S  the  mournful  requiem  sound, 
And  Fox's  shall  the  notes  rebound. 
The  solemn  echo  seems  to  cry, 
'Here  let  their  discord  with  them  die. 
Speak  not  for  those  a  separate  doom 
Whom  fate  made  Brothers  in  the  tomb; 
But  search  the  land  of  living  men, 
Where  wilt  thou  find  their  like  agen?' 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner 

1773-183* 
PART  I 


Mariner6"1         T  T  is  an  ancient  Mariner, 

meeteth  three      *      And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three. 

gallants 

bidden  to  a         'By  thy  long  grey  beard  and  glittering  eye, 
1    Now  wherefore  stopp'st  thou  me? 

The  Bridegroom's  doors  are  open'd  wide, 
And  I  am  next  of  kin  ; 
The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set  : 
May'st  hear  the  merry  din.' 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand, 
'There  was  a  ship,'  quoth  he. 
'  Hold  off!    unhand  me,  grey-beard  loon  !  ' 
Eftsoons  his  hand  dropt  he. 

"    He  holds  him  wlth  his  glittering  eye- 
bound  by  the      The  Wedding-Guest  stood  still, 

eye  of  the  old        ....  ... 

seafaring  man,    And.  listens  like  a  three  years   child: 
e.  The  Mariner  hath  his  will. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


The  Wedding-Guest  sat  on  a  stone: 
He  cannot  choose  but  hear; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner. 

'The  ship  was  cheer'd,  the  harbour  clear'd, 

Merrily  did  we  drop 

Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill, 

Below  the  lighthouse  top. 

The  Sun  came  up  upon  the  left, 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he ! 
And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

Higher  and  higher  every  day, 

Till  over  the  mast  at  noon ' 

The  Wedding-Guest  here  beat  his  breast, 
For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 

The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall, 
Red  as  a  rose  is  she; 
Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 
The  merry  minstrelsy. 

The  Wedding-Guest  he  beat  his  breast, 
Yet  he  cannot  choose  but  hear; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner. 

'And  now  the  Storm-blast  came,  and  he 
Was  tyrannous  and  strong: 
He  struck  with  his  o'ertaking  wings, 
And  chased  us  south  along. 


Tlie  Mariner 
tells  how  the 
ship  sailed 
southward  wi 
a  good  wind 
and  fair 
weather,  till 
it  reached  the 

L  :.-. 


The  Wedding- 
Guest  heareth 
the  bridal 
music ;  but  the 
Mariner  con- 
tinueth  his  tale. 


The  ship  drawn 
by  a  stunn  to- 
ward the  South 
Pole. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

With  sloping  masts  and  dipping  prow, 
As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 
Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe, 
And  forward  bends  his  head, 
The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roar'd  the  blast, 
And  southward  aye  we  fled. 

And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow, 
And  it  grew  wondrous  cold : 
And  ice,   mast-high,   came  floating  by, 
As  green  as  emerald. 

The  land  of  ice,  And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  clifts 

sounds^whe"!:      ^'d    Send    a    disrna'    sheen  : 

was'to'fe'seen      ^°T    S^aPeS    °?  men    n°r   beasts    WC    ken  — 

The  ice  was  all  between. 

The  ice  was  here,   the  ice  was  there, 

The  ice  was  all  around: 

It  crack'd  and  growl'd,  and  roar'd  and  howl'd, 

Like  noises  in  a  swound ! 

Tiiiagreat^  j   At  length  did  cross  an  Albatross, 

Thorough  the  fog  it  came ; 
now°of,h     As  if  il  had  been  a  Christian  soul, 
and  was  re-'      We  hail'd  it  in  God's  name. 

ceivedwith 

hospitality1."'1     It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er  had  eat, 
And  round  and  round  it  flew. 
The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder-fit; 
The  helmsman  steer'd  us  through ! 

And lo!  the        And  a  good  south  wind  sprung  up  behind; 
The  Albatross  did  follow, 
And  every  day,   for  food  or  play, 

the  ship  as  it      Came  to  the  mariners'  hollo ! 

returned  north- 

ward  through  fog  and  floating  ice. 

630 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


fti  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud, 

It  perch'd  for  vespers  nine; 

Whiles  all  the  night,  through  fog-smoke  white, 

Glimmer'd  the  white  moonshine.' 

'God  save  thee,   ancient  Mariner, 

From  the  fiends,  that  plague  thee  thus!  —        hospitably 

Why  look'st  thou  so?'—  'With  my  crossbow 

I  shot  the  Albatross. 


PART  II 

'The  Sun  now  rose  upon  the  right: 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 
Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew  behind. 
But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow, 
Nor  any  day  for  food  or  play 
Came  to  the  mariners'  hollo ! 

And  I  had  done  a  hellish  thing, 

And  it  would  work  'em  woe: 

For  all  averr'd  I  had  kill'd  the  bird 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 

Ah  wretch !    said  they,  the  bird  to  slay, 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow ! 

Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God's  own  head, 

The  glorious  Sun  uprist : 

Then  all  averr'd  I  had  kill'd  the  bird 

That  brought  the  fog  and  mist. 

'Twas  right,  said  they,   such  birds  to  slay, 

That  bring  the  fog  and  mist 


His  shipmates 
cry  out  against 
the  ancient 
Mariner  for 
killing  the  bird 
of  good  luck. 


But  when  the 
fog  cleared  off, 
they  justify  the 
same,  ana  thus 
make  them- 
selves accom- 
plices in  the 
crime. 


63' 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

The  fair  breeze  The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew, 
he    The  furrow  follow'd  free; 
h  We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 

Into  that  silent  sea- 

Line. 

The  ship  hath     Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt  down, 
ly    'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be; 

And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea ! 

All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky, 
The  bloody  Sun,  at  noon, 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand, 
No  bigger  than  the  Moon. 

Day  after  day,  day  after  day, 
We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion  ; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 

And  the  Alba-    Water,  water,  everywhere, 
beOSaSveniedS.t0    And  all  the  boards  did  shrink; 

Water,  water,  everywhere, 

Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 

The  very  deep  did  rot :    O  Christ ! 
That  ever  this  should  be  ! 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 
Upon  the  slimy  sea. 

About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout 
The  death-fires  danced  at  night; 
The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils, 
Burnt  green,  and  blue,  and  white. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
Of  the  Spirit  that  plagued  us  so  ; 
Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  follow'd  us 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 


A  Spirit  had 
followed  them ; 
one  of  the  in- 
visible inhabit, 
ants  of  this 
planet,  neither 
departed  souls 

cerning  whom  the  learned  Jew,  Josephus,  and  the  Platonic  Ccnstantinopolitan, 
Michael  Psellus,  may  be  consulted.  They  are  very  numerous,  and  there  is  no 
climate  or  element  without  one  or  more. 

And  every  tongue,   through  utter  drought, 
Was  wither'd  at  the  root ; 
We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 
We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 


Ah !    well  a-day !    what  evil  looks 
Had  I  from  old  and  young  ! 
Instead  of  the  cross,  the  Albatross 
About  my  neck  was  hung. 

PART  III 

'There  passed  a  weary  time.      Each  throat 

Was  parch 'd,  and  glazed  each  eye. 

A  weary  time !    a  weary  time ! 

How  glazed  each  weary  eye ! 

When  looking  westward,   I  beheld 

A  something  in  the  sky. 

At  first  it  seem'd  a  little  speck, 
And  then  it  seem'd  a  mist ; 
It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last 
A  certain  shape,   I  wist. 

A  speck,   a  mist,  a  shape,   I  wistl 
And  still  it  near'd  and  near'd : 
As  if  it  dodged  a  water-sprite, 
It  plunged,  and  tack'd,  and  veer'd. 


The  shipmates 
in  their  sore 
distress,  would 
fain  throw  the 
whole  j^uilt  on 
the  ancient 
Mariner:  in 
sign  whereof 
they  hang  the 
dead  sea-bird 
round  his  neck. 


The  ancient 
Mariner  be- 
holdeth  a  sign 
in  the  element 
afar  off. 


633 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

At  its  nearer      With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 

s<feme?hhim       We  could  nor  laugh  nor  wail ; 

a^deataasdear      Through  utter  drought  all  dumb  we  stood! 

frae"Sththise  I    bit   my   3rm'    *    suck><1    the    blood» 

speech  from       And  cried,   A  sail !    a  sail ! 

the  bonds  of 
thirst. 

With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 
Agape  they  heard  me  call: 
A  flash  of  joy;     Gramercy  !    they  for  joy  did  grin, 

And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in, 
As  they  were  drinking  all. 

And  horror        See!    see !    (I  cried)  she  tacks  no  more! 

follows.     For       T,.  ,  ,  '        , 

can  it  be  a         rlitner  to  work  us  weal — 
o™aVhdawhhoutS  Without  a  breeze,  without  a  tide, 
wind  or  tide?     She  steadies  with  upright  keel ! 

The  western  wave  was  all  aflame, 

The  day  was  wellnigh  done ! 

Almost  upon  the  western  wave 

Rested  the  broad,  bright  Sun; 

When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly 

Betwixt  us  and  the  Sun. 

It  sermeth  him    And  straight  the  Sun  was  fleck'd  with  bars 
hip6"     (Heaven's  Mother  send  us  grace!), 

As  if  through  a  dungeon-grate  he  peer'd 
With  broad  and  burning  face. 

Alas!    (thought  I,  and  my  heart  beat  loud) 
How  fast  she  nears  and  nears  ! 
Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the  Sun, 
Like  restless  gossameres  ? 
634 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


Are  those  her  ribs  through  which  the  Sun 
Did  peer,  as  through  a  grate  ? 
And  is  that  Woman  all  her  crew  ? 
Is  that  a  Death  ?   and  are  there  two  ? 
Is  Death  that  Woman's  mate  ? 

Her  lips  were  red,   her  looks  were  free, 
Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold  : 
Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy, 
The  Nightmare  Life-in-Death  was  she, 
Who  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold. 

The  naked  hulk  alongside  came, 

And  the  twain  were  casting  dice ; 

"  The  game  is  done  !    I've  won  !    I've  won  !  " 

Quoth  she,  and   whistles  thrice. 

The  Sun's  rim  dips;    the  stars  rush  out: 
At  one  stride  comes  the  dark ; 
With  far-heard  whisper,   o'er  the  sea, 
Off  shot  the  spectre-bark. 

We  listen'd  and  look'd  sideways  up ! 

Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a  cup, 

My  life-blood  seem'd  to  sip ! 

The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the  night, 

The  steersman's  face  by  his  lamp  gleam'd  white ; 

From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip — 

Till  clomb  above  the  eastern  bar 

The  horned  Moon,   with  one  bright  star 

Within  the  nether  tip. 

One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogg'd  Moon, 
Too  quick  for  groan  or  sigh, 
Each  turn'd  his  face  with  a  ghastly  pang, 
And  cursed  me  with  his  eye. 


And  its  ribs 
are  seen  as 
bars  on  the 
face  of  the 
setting  Sun. 
The  Spectre- 
Woman  and  her 
Death-mate, 
and  no  other, 
on  board  the 
skeleton  ship. 
Like  vessel, 
like  crew  1 


Death  and 
Life-in-Death 
have  diced  for 
the  ship's  crew, 
and  she  (the 
latter)  winneth 
the  ancient 
Mariner. 

No  twilight 
within  the 
courts  of  the 
Suo. 


At  the  rising 
of  the  Moon, 


One  after 
another, 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


Hf»  shipmates 
drop  down 
dead. 


Four  times  fifty  living  men 
(And  I  heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan), 
With  heavy  thump,  a  lifeless  lump, 
They  dropp'd  down  one  by  one. 

The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly- 

The7  fled  to  bliss  or  woe  ! 
And  every  soul,  it  pass'd  me  by 
Like  the  whizz  of  my  crossbow  !  * 


The  Wedding- 
Guest  feareth 
that  a  spirit 
is  talking  to 
him. 


But  the  an- 
cient Mariner 
assureth  him 
of  his  bodily 
life,  and  pro- 
ceedeth  to  re- 


PART  IV 

'  I  fear  thee,   ancient  Mariner  ! 

I  fear  thy  skinny  hand  ! 

And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown, 

As  is  the  ribb'd  sea-sand. 

I  fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye, 

And  thy  skinny  hand  so  brown.' — 

'  Fear  not,  fear  not,  thou  Wedding-Guest ! 

This  body  dropt  not  down. 

Alone,  alone,  all,   all  alone, 
late  his  horrible  Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea  ! 

penance.  .  ' 

And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 
My  soul  in  agony. 

He  despiseth      The  many  men,   so  beautiful  I 
the  calm"63  °f  And  they  all  dead  did  lie  : 

And  a  thousand  thousand  slimy  things 

Lived  on;   and  so  did  I. 

And  envieth        I  look'd  upon  the  rotting  sea, 

that  they  A     j    j 

should  live,         And  drew  my  eyes  away ; 
fiedladmany       *  look'd  upon  the  rotting  deck, 
And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

I  look'd  to  heaven,  and  tried  to  pray  ; 
But  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gusht, 
A  wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 
My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 

I  closed  my  lids,  and  kept  them  close, 

And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat; 

For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and  the  sky, 

Lay  like  a  load  on  my  weary  eye, 

And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 

The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  limbs, 

Nor  rot  nor  reek  did  they: 

The  look  with  which  they  look'd  on  me  dead  men. 

Had  never  pass'd  away. 

An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  hell 

A  spirit  from  on  high  ; 

But  oh !    more  horrible  than  that 

Is  the  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye  ! 

Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I  saw  that  curse, 

And  yet  I  could  not  die. 

The  moving  Moon  went  up  the  sky,  ,nhilloneli. 

And  nowhere  did  abide;  ness  and 

0    _ .         .  .  fixedness  he 

Softly    She    Was    going    up,  yearneth 

And  a  star  or  two  beside—  journeying6 

Moon,  and  the 

stars  that  still  sojourn,  yet  still  move  onward;  and  even-where  the  blue  sky 
belongs  to  them,  and  is  their  appointed  rest  and  their  native  country  and  their 
own  natural  homes,  which  they  enter  unannounced,  as  lords  that  are  certainly- 
expected,  and  yet  there  is  a  silent  joy  at  their  ar  rival. 

Her  beams  bemock'd  the  sultry  main, 

Like  April  hoar-frost  spread ; 

But  where  the  ship's  huge  shadow  lay, 

The  charmed  water  burnt  alway 

A  still  and  awful  red. 

637 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


fthe  Moon 
he  beholdeth 
God's  crra- 
tures  of  the 
great  calm. 


Their  beauty 
and  their 
happiness. 


He  blesseth 
them  in  his 
heart. 


The  spell 
begins  to 
break. 


Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship, 

I  watch'd  the  water-snakes : 

They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining  white, 

And  when  they  rear'd,  the  elfish  light 

Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watch'd  their  rich  attire : 

Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black, 

They  coil'd  and  swam  ;    and  every  track 

Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 

O  happy  living  things !    no  tongue 

Their  beauty  might  declare : 

A  spring  of  love  gush'd  from  my  heart, 

And  I  bless'd  them  unaware : 

Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me, 

And  I  bless'd  them  unaware. 


The  selfsame  moment  I  could 
And  from  my  neck  so  free 
The  Albatross  fell  off,  and  sank 
Like  lead  into  the  sea. 


pray; 


race  of 
theloly 
Mother,  the 
ancient 
Mariner  is 
refreshed 
with  rain. 


PART  V 

'  O  sleep !    it  is  a  gentle  thing, 
Beloved  from  pole  to  pole! 
To  Mary  Queen  the  praise  be  given! 
She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  Heaven, 
That  slid  into  my  soul. 

The  silly  buckets  on   the  deck, 

That  had  so  long  remain'd, 

I  dreamt  that  they  were  fill'd  with  dew: 

And  when  I  awoke,  it  rain'd. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  cold, 
My  garments  all  were  dank; 
Sure  I  had  drunken  in  my  dreams, 
And  still   my  body  drank. 

I  moved,  and  could  not  feel  my  limbs: 
I  was  so  light — almost 
I  thought  that  I  had  died  in  sleep, 
And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 

And  soon  I  heard  a  roaring  wind : 

It  did  not  come  anear; 

But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails,  s'ghts  and 

commotions 

That  were  so  thin  and  sere.  in  the  sky  and 

the  element. 

The  upper  air  burst  into  life; 
And  a  hundred  fire-flags  sheen; 
To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about! 
And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out, 
The  wan  stars  danced  between. 

And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more  loud, 
And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge ; 
And  the  rain  pour'd  down  from  one  black  cloud  ; 
The  Moon  was  at  its  edge. 

The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft,  and  still 

The  Moon  was  at  its  side; 

Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag, 

The  lightning  fell  with  never  a  jag, 

A  river  steep  and  wide. 

The  loud  wind  never  reach'd  the  ship,  The  bodies  of 

Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on! 
Beneath  the  lightning  and  the  Moon 
The  dead  men  gave  a  groan. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

They  groan'd,  they  stirr'd,  they  all  uprose, 

Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes  ; 

It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a  dream, 

To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 

The  helmsman  steer'd,  the  ship  moved  on  ; 

Yet  never  a  breeze  up-blew  ; 

The  mariners  all  'gan  work  the  ropes, 

Where  they  were  wont  to  do  ; 

They  raised  their  limbs  like  lifeless  tools  — 

We  were  a  ghastly  crew. 

The  body  of  my  brother's  son 

Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee: 

The  body  and  I  pulPd  at  one  rope, 

But  he  said  naught  to  me.' 
But  not  by         '  I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner  !  ' 
Ihefnen'nor       'Be  calm,  thou  Wedding-Guest  : 


fito  'Twas  not  those  souls  that  fled  in  pain, 
air,  but  by  a       Which  to  their  corses  came  again, 

blessed  troop 

of  angelic  But  a  troop  of  spirits  blest: 

spirits,  sent 

down  by  the       por  when  it  dawn'd—  they  dropp'd  their  arms, 

invocation  of  ••  *  l 

the  guardian      And  cluster  d  round  the  mast  ; 

Sweet  sounds  rose  slowly  through  their  mouths, 
And  from  their  bodies  pass'd. 
Around,  around,   flew  each  sweet  sound, 
Then  darted  to  the  Sun  ; 
Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again, 
Now  mix'd,  now  one  by  one. 
Sometimes  a-dropping  from  the  sky 
I  heard  the  skylark  sing  ; 
Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are, 
How  they  seem'd  to  fill  the  sea  and  air 
With  their  sweet  jargoning  ! 
640 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


And  now  'twas  like  all  instruments, 
Now  like  a  lonely  flute; 
And  now  it  is  an  angel's  song, 
That  makes  the  Heavens  be  mute. 

It  ceased;    yet  still  the  sails  made  on 

A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 

A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 

Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 

Till  noon  we  quietly  sail'd  on, 
Yet  never  a  breeze  did  breathe  : 
Slowly  and  smoothly  went  the  ship, 
Moved  onward  from  beneath. 

Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep, 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 
The  Spirit  slid :    and  it  was  he 
That  made  the  ship  to  go. 
The  sails  at  noon  left  off  their  tune, 
And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

The  Sun,  right  up  above  the  mast, 
Had  fix'd  her  to  the  ocean: 
But  in  a  minute  she  'gan  stir, 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion — 
Backwards  and  forwards  half  her  length 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion. 

Then  like  a  pawing  horse  let  go, 
She  made  a  sudden  bound : 
It  flung  the  blood  into  my  head, 
And  I  fell  down  in  a  swound. 


The  lonesome 
Spirit  from  the 
South  Pole 
carries  on  the 
ship  as  far  as 
the  Line,  in 
obedience  to 
the  angelic 
troop,  but  still 
requireth 
vengeance. 


641 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

The  Polar          How  long  in  that  same  fit  I  lay, 

Spirit's  fellow-  .      , 

demons,  the  I  have  not  to  declare ; 

iantfofethnehabi~  But  ere  my  living  life  return'd, 

paninhis^6  l  heard>  and  in  my  soul  discern'd 

wrong;  and  Two  voices  in  the  air. 

two  of  them 
relate,  one  to 

the  other,  that    "  Is  it  he  ?  "  quoth  one,   "  is  this  the  man  r 

penance  long  TT.  j-   j 

and  heavy  for     By  Him  who  died  on  cross, 

MadneThath       With    his    cruel    bow    he    kid    full    low 

boetheapo'iafd    The  harmless  Albatross. 

d^Ird  The    SPirit   Wh°    bideth   by    himself 

In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 

He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  the  man 

Who  shot  him  with  his  bow." 

The  other  was  a  softer  voice, 

As  soft  as  honey-dew : 

Quoth  he,    "  The  man  hath  penance  done, 

And  penance  more  will  do." 


PART  VI 
First   Voice: 

"  But  tell  me,  tell  me !    speak  again, 
Thy  soft  response  renewing — 
What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so  fast? 
What  is  the  Ocean  doing:" 

Second  Voice: 

"Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord, 
The  Ocean  hath  no  blast; 
His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 
Up  to  the  Moon  is  cast — 
6*. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go; 
For  she  guides  him  smooth  or  grim. 
See,  brother,  see!    how  graciously 
She  looketh  down  on  him." 

First   Voice : 

"But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast, 
Without  or  wave  or  wind?" 

Second  Voice: 

"The  air  is  cut  away  before, 
And  closes  from  behind. 

Fly,  brother,  fly !    more  high,  more  high ! 
Or  we  shall  be  belated: 
For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go, 
When  the  Mariner's  trance  is  abated.' 

I  woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on 

As  in  a  gentle  weather: 

'Twas  night,  calm  night,  the  Moon  was  high ; 

The  dead  men  stood  together. 

All  stood  together  on  the  deck, 
For  a  charnel-dungeon  fitter: 
All  fix'd  on  me  their  stony  eyes, 
That  in  the  Moon  did  glitter. 

The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  they  died, 
Had  never  pass'd  away: 
I  could  not  draw  my  eyes  from  theirs, 
'Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 

And  now  this  spell  was  snapt:    once  more 

I  viewed  the  ocean  green, 

And  look'd  far  forth,  yet  little  saw 

Of  what  had  else  been  seen — 


The  Mariner 
hath  been  cast 
into  a  trance ; 
for  the  angelic 
power  causeth 
the  vessel  to 
drive  northward 
faster  than 
human  life 
could  endure. 


The  super- 
natural motioc 
is  retarded ; 
the  Mariner 
awakes,  and 
his  penance 
begins  anew. 


The  curse  is 
finally  expiated 


543 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

Like  one  that  on  a  lonesome  road 

Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread. 

And  having  once  turn'd  round,   walks  on, 

And  turns  no  more  his  head ; 

Because  he  knows  a  frightful  fiend 

Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 

But  soon  there  breathed  a  wind  on  me, 
Nor  sound  nor  motion  made: 
Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea, 
In  ripple  or  in  shade. 

It  raised  my  hair,  it  fann'd  my  cheek 
Like  a  meadow-gale  of  spring — 
It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears, 
Yet  it  felt  like  a  welcoming. 

Swiftly,  swiftly  flew  the  ship, 
Yet  she  sail'd  softly  too: 
Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze — 
On  me  alone  it  blew. 

And  the  ancient  O  dream  of  joy  !    is  this  indeed 

holdeth  his  The    lighthouse    top    I    SCC  ? 

native  country.    jg    ^    the    hm  ,     jg    ^    the    ^  ? 

Is  this  mine  own  countree  ? 

We  drifted  o'er  the  harbour-bar, 
And  I  with  sobs  did  pray — 
O  let  me  be  awake,  my  God! 
Or  let  me  sleep  alway. 

The  harbour-bay  was  clear  as  glass, 
So  smoothly  it  was  strewn ! 
And  on  the  bay  the  moonlight  lay. 
And  the  shadow  of  the  Moon. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no  less 
That  stands  above  the  rock: 
The  moonlight  steep'd  in  silentness 
The  steady  weathercock. 


And  the  bay  was  white  with  silent  light 
Till  rising  from  the  same, 
Full  many  shapes,  that  shadows  were, 
In  crimson  colours  came. 

A  little  distance  from  the  prow 

Those  crimson  shadows  were: 

I  turn'd  my  eyes  upon  the  deck — 

0  Christ!    what  saw  I  there! 

Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat, 
And,  by  the  holy  rood ! 
A  man  all  light,  a  seraph-man, 
On  every  corse  there  stood. 

This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand: 
It  was  a  heavenly  sight! 
They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land, 
Each  one  a  lovely  light; 

This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand. 
No  voice  did  they  impart — 
No  voice;    but  O,  the  silence  sank 
Like  music  on  my  heart. 

But  soon  I  heard  the  dash  of  oars, 

1  heard  the  Pilot's  cheer; 

My  head  was  turn'd  perforce  away, 
And  I  saw  a  boat  appear. 


The  angelic 
spirits  leave  t 
dead  bodies, 


And  appear  in 
their  own  forms 
of  light. 


643 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

The  Pilot  and  the  Pilot's  boy, 

I  heard  them  coming  fast: 

Dear  Lord  in  Heaven  !    it  was  a  joy 

The  dead  men  could  not  blast. 

I  saw  a  third  —  I  heard  his  voice: 

It  is  the  Hermit  good! 

He  singeth  loud  his  godly  hymns 

That  he  makes  in  the  wood. 

He'll  shrieve  my  soul,   he'll  wash  away 

The  Albatross's  blood. 

PART  VII 

The  Hermit        '  This  hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood 

he  Wood. 


How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears! 
He  loves  to  talk  with  marineres 
That  come  from  a  far  countree. 

He  kneels  at  morn,  and  noon,  and  eve  — 

He  hath  a  cushion  plump  : 

It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 

The  rotted  old  oak-stump. 

The  skiff-boat  near'd  :    I  heard  them  talk, 
"Why,  this  is  strange,   I  trow! 
Where  are  those  lights  so  many  and  fair, 
That  signal  made  but  now?" 

Approacheth      "  Strange,  by  my  faith  !  "  the  Hermit  said— 
woendheT.witl       "And  they  answer'd  not  our  cheer! 

The  planks  look  warp'd  !   and  see  those  sails, 

How  thin  they  are  and  sere  ! 

I  never  saw  aught  like  to  them, 

Unless  perchance  it  were 
646 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

Brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 

My  forest-brook  along; 

When  the  ivy-tod  is  heavy  with  snow, 

And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf  below, 

That  eats  the  she-wolfs  young." 

"  Dear  Lord  !    it  hath  a  fiendish  look — 

(The  Pilot  made  reply) 

I  am  a-fear'd." — "  Push  on,  push  on  !  " 

Said  the  Hermit  cheerily. 

The  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship, 

But  I  nor  spake  nor  stirr'd ; 

The  boat  came  close  beneath  the  ship, 

And  straight  a  sound  was  heard. 

Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on,  The  ship  sud- 

0  -11    t       j  j  ii  denly  sinketh 

otill  louder  and  more  dread : 

It  reach'd  the  ship,   it  split  the  bay ; 

The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 

Stunn'd  by  that  loud  and  dreadful  sound,  The  ancient 

T17L-   LI  j  Mariner  is 

Which  sky  and  ocean  smote,  saved  in  the 

Like  one  that  hath  been  seven  days  drown'd    Pllot'8boat- 

My  body  lay  afloat; 

But  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I  found 

Within  the  Pilot's  boat. 

Upon  the  whirl,  where  sank  the  ship, 

The  boat  spun  round  and  round ; 

And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 

Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

1  moved  my  lips — the  Pilot  shriek 'd 
And  fell  down  in  a  fit; 

The  holy  Hermit  raised  his  eyes, 
And  pray'd  where  he  did  sit. 

647 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


The  ancient 
Mariner 
earnestly  en- 
treateth  the 
Hermit  to 
shrieve  him ; 
and  the  pen- 
ance of  life 
falls  on  him. 


And  ever 
and  anon 
throughout 
his  future  life 
an  agony 
cpnstrameth 
him  to  travel 
from  land  to 
land ; 


I  took  the  oars:    the  Pilot's  boy, 

Who  now  doth  crazy  go, 

Laugh'd  loud  and  long,   and  all  the  while 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro. 

"  Ha  !    ha !  "    quoth  he,    "  full  plain  I  see 

The  Devil  knows  how  to  row." 

And  now,  all  in  my  own  countree, 

I  stood  on  the  firm  land ! 

The  Hermit  stepp'd  forth  from  the  boat, 

And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 

"  O  shrieve  me,   shrieve  me,  holy  man  !  " 

The  Hermit  cross'd  his  brow. 

"Say  quick,"  quoth  he,    "I  bid  thee  say— 

What  manner  of  man  art  thou  ? " 

Forthwith  this  frame  of  mine  was  wrench'd 

With  a  woful  agony, 

Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale; 

And  then  it  left  me  free. 

Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour, 

That  agony  returns : 

And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told, 

This  heart  within  me  burns. 

I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land; 

I  have  strange  power  of  speech; 

That  moment  that  his  face  I  see, 

I  know  the  man  that  must  hear  me: 

To  him  my  tale  I  teach. 

What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door! 

The  wedding-guests  are  there: 

But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 

And  bride-maids  singing  are: 


648 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

And  hark,   the  little  vesper  bell, 
Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer ! 

O  Wedding-Guest!    this  soul  hath  been 

Alone  on  a  wide,   wide  sea : 

So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  Himself 

Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

O  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 

'Tis  sweeter  far  to  me, 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk 

With  a  goodly  company ! — 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 

And  all  together  pray, 

While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends, 

Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friends, 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay  ! 

Farewell,  farewell !    but  this  I  tell  And  to  t 

To  thee,  thou  Wedding-Guest !  SSp£ 

He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well  reverenc 

Both  man  and  bird  and  beast.  all  things 

that  God 

He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best  tove^!"" 

All  things  both  great  and  small; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all.' 

The  Mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright, 
Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar, 
Is  gone :    and  now  the  Wedding-Guest 
Turn'd  from  the  bridegroom's  door. 

He  went  like  one  that  hath  been  stunn'd, 
And  is  of  sense  forlorn : 
A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man 
He  rose  the  morrow  morn. 

Y3  649 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


jo.  Kubla  Khan 

TN  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 

•*•    A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree: 

Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,   ran 

Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 
Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 

So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 

With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round: 
And  there  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills 
Where  blossom'd  many  an  incense-bearing  tree; 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills, 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But  O,  that  deep  romantic  chasm  which  slanted 

Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn  cover ! 

A  savage  place !    as  holy  and  enchanted 

As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted 

By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover  I 

And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil  seething, 

As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breathing, 

A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced ; 

Amid  whose  swift  half-intermitted  burst 

Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail, 

Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail: 

And  'mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and  ever 

It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 

Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion 

Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran, 

Then  reach'd  the  caverns  measureless  to  man, 

And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean : 

And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 

Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war! 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 

Floated  midway  on  the  waves ; 
Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 

From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 
It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 
A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice ! 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 
In  a  vision  once  I  saw: 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  play'd, 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I  revive  within  me, 

Her  symphony  and  song, 
To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould  win  mca 
That  with  music  loud  and  long, 
I  would  build  that  dome  in  air, 
That  sunny  dome !    those  caves  of  ice ! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 
And  all  should  cry,   Beware!    Beware  1 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair  ! 
Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice, 

And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 

For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 


.  Love 

ALL  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
•**•     Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

65' 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour, 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay, 
Beside  the  ruin'd  tower. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the  scene, 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve ; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve ! 

She  lean'd  against  the  armed  man, 

The  statue  of  the  armed   Knight; 

She  stood  and  listen'd  to  my  lay. 

Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 
My  hope  !    my  joy  !    my  Genevieve  ! 
She  loves  me  best  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  play'd  a  soft  and  doleful  air ; 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 
An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listen'd  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace; 
For  well  she  knew  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  Knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand ; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  woo'd 

The  Lady  of  the  Land. 
652 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

I  told  her  how  he  pined :    and  ah  I 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love, 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listen'd  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  modest  grace; 
And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face! 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  Knight, 
And  that  he  cross'd  the  mountain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade. 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade — 

There  came  and  look'd  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright; 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  Fiend, 
This  miserable  Knight! 

And  that,   unknowing  what  he  did, 
He  leap'd  amid  a  murderous  band, 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  Lady  of  the  Land  ;— 

And  how  she  wept  and  clasp'd  his  knees ; 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain — 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain ; — 
653 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave; 
And  how  his  madness  went  away, 
When  on  the  yellow  forest  leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay  ; — 

His  dying  words — but  when  I  reach'd 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturb'd  her  soul  with  pity  ! 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrill'd  my  guileless  Genevieve; 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  ricli  and  balmy  eve ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherish'd  long! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 
She  blush'd  with  love  and  virgin   shame ; 
And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved — she  stepp'd  aside, 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  su.pt — 
Then  suddenly,   with  timorous  eye 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  enclosed  me  with  her  arms. 
She  press'd  me  with  a  meek  embrace; 
And  bending  back  her  head,   look'd  up, 

And  gazed  upon  my  face. 
654 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

'Twas  partly  love,   and  partly  fear, 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art, 
That  I  might  rather  feel,  than  see, 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calm'd  her  fears,   and  she  was  calm, 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride ; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  Bride. 


Touth  and  slge 

A  7ERSE,  a  breeze  'mid  blossoms  straying, 

Where  Hope  clung  feeding,  like  a  bee — 
Both  were  mine !     Life  went  a-maying 
With  Nature,   Hope,  and  Poesy, 

When  I  was  young ! 

When  I  was  young  ? — Ah,  woful  When  ! 
Ah !    for  the  change  'twixt  Now  and  Then  ! 
This  breathing  house  not  built  with  hands, 
This  body  that  does  me  grievous  wrong, 
O'er  aery  cliffs  and  glittering  sands, 
How  lightly  then  it  flash'd  along — 
Like  those  trim  skiffs,  unknown  of  yore, 
On  winding  lakes  and  rivers  wide, 
That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar, 
That  fear  no  spite  of  wind  or  tide  ! 
Naught  cared  this  body  for  wind  or  weather 
When  Youth  and  I  lived  in 't  together. 

Flowers  are  lovely!     Love  is  flower-like; 
Friendship  is  a  sheltering  tree; 

655 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

O    the  joys,  that  came  down  shower-like, 
Of  Friendship,   Love,  and  Liberty, 

Ere  I  was  old  ! 

Ere  I  was  old?    Ah,  woful  Ere, 
Which  tells  me,  Youth  's  no  longer  here ! 

0  Youth !    for  years  so  many  and  sweet, 
'Tis  known  that  thou  and  I  were  one ; 
I'll  think  it  but  a  fond  conceit — 

It  cannot  be  that  thou  art  gone  ! 
Thy  vesper-bell  hath  not  yet  toll'd — 
And  thou  wert  aye  a  masker  bold  ! 
What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put  on, 
To  make  believe  that  thou  art  gone  ? 

1  see  these  locks  in  silvery  slips, 
This  drooping  gait,  this  alter'd  size : 
But  springtide  blossoms  on  thy  lips, 
And  tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyesl 
Life  is  but  thought:    so  think  I  will 
That  Youth  and  I  are  housemates  still. 

Dewdrops  are  the  gems  of  morning, 
But  the  tears  of  mournful  eve  ! 
Where  no  hope  is,  life's  a  warning 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve, 

When  we  are  old  ! 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve 
With  oft  and  tedious  taking-leave, 
Like  some  poor  nigh-related  guest 
That  may  not  rudely  be  dismist. 
Yet  hath  outstay'd  his  welcome  while, 
And  tells  the  jest  without  the  smile. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 
/jvj.      Time,  Real  and  Imaginary 

AN    ALLEGORY 

ON  the  wide  level  of  a  mountain's  head 
(I  knew  not  where,  but  'twas  some  faery  place), 
Their  pinions,  ostrich-like,   for  sails  outspread, 
Two  lovely  children  run  an  endless  race, 
A  sister  and  a  brother ! 
This  far  outstripp'd  the  other; 
Yet  ever  runs  she  with  reverted  face, 
And  looks  and  listens  for  the  boy  behind: 

For  he,   alas  !    is  blind ! 

O'er  rough  and  smooth  with  even  step  he  pass'd, 
And  knows  not  whether  he  be  first  or  last. 


//4.  Work  without  Hope 

ALL  Nature  seems  at  work.     Slugs  leave  their  lair — 
•**•     The  bees  are  stirring — birds  are  on  the  wing — 
And  Winter,   slumbering  in  the  open  air, 
Wears  on  his  smiling  face  a  dream  of  Spring  I 
And  I,  the  while,  the  sole  unbusy  thing, 
Nor  honey  make,  nor  pair,  nor  build,   nor  sing. 

Yet  well  I  ken  the  banks  where  amaranths  blow, 
Have  traced  the  fount  whence  streams  of  nectar  flow. 
Bloom,  O  ye  amaranths  !    bloom  for  whom  ye  may, 
For  me  ye  bloom  not !     Glide,   rich  streams,   away  ! 
With  lips  unbrighten'd,  wreathless  brow,   I  stroll : 
And  would  you  learn  the  spells  that  drowse  my  soul? 
Work  without  Hope  draws  nectar  in  a  sieve, 
And  Hope  without  an  object  cannot  live. 

657 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


G 'ly 'tine's  Song 

A     SUNNY  shaft  did  I  behold, 
•**•     From  sky  to  earth  it  slanted : 
And  poised  therein  a  bird  so  bold — 
Sweet  bird,   thou  wert  enchanted  ! 

He  sank,  he  rose,   he  twinkled,  he  troll'd 
Within  that  shaft  of  sunny  mist; 

His  eyes  of  fire,  his  beak  of  gold, 
All  else  of  amethyst ! 

And  thus  he  sang  :    '  Adieu  !    adieu  ! 
Love's  dreams  prove  seldom  true. 
The  blossoms,  they  make  no  delay : 
The  sparking  dew-drops  will  not  stay. 
Sweet  month  of  May, 
We  must  away; 
Far,  far  away ! 
To-day  !    to-day ! ' 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY 

$56.  His  Books 

1774-1843 

MY  days  among  the  Dead  are  past; 
Around  me  I  behold, 
Where'er  these  casual  eyes  are  cast, 

The  mighty  minds  of  old: 
My  never-failing  friends  are  they, 
With  whom  I  converse  day  by  day. 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY 

With  them  I  take  delight  in  weal 

And  seek  relief  in  woe; 
And  while  I  understand  and  feel 

How  much  to  them  I  owe, 
My  cheeks  have  often  been  bedew'd 
With  tears  of  thoughtful  gratitude. 

My  thoughts  are  with  the  Dead;    with  them 

I  live  in  long-past  years, 
Their  virtues  love,  their  faults  condemn. 

Partake  their  hopes  and  fears; 
And  from  their  lessons  seek  and  find 
Instruction  with  an  humble  mind. 

My  hopes  are  with  the  Dead ;    anon 

My  place  with  them  will  be, 
And  I  with  them  shall  travel  on 

Through  all  Futurity ; 
Yet  leaving  here  a  name,  I  trust, 
That  will  not  perish  in  the  dust. 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 

/77.  The  Maid's  Lament 

1775-1864 

T    LOVED  him  not;    and  yet  now  he  is  gone, 

*•  I  feel  I  am  alone. 

I  check'd  him  while  he  spoke ;    yet,   could  he  speak, 

Alas!    I  would  not  check. 
For  reasons  not  to  love  him  once  I  sought, 

And  wearied  all  my  thought 

659 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 

To  vex  myself  and  him;    I  now  would  give 

My  love,  could  he  but  live 
Who  lately  lived  for  me,  and  when  he  found 

'Twas  vain,  in  holy  ground 
He  hid  his  face  amid  the  shades  of  death. 

1  waste  for  him  my  breath 
Who  wasted  his  for  me ;    but  mine  returns, 

And  this  lorn  bosom  burns 
With  stifling  heat,   heaving  it  up  in  sleep, 

And  waking  me  to  weep 
Tears  that  had  melted  his  soft  heart:    for  years 

Wept  he  as  bitter  tears. 
'  Merciful  God !  '   such  was  his  latest  prayer, 

'  These  may  she  never  share  ! ' 
Quieter  is  his  breath,  his  breast  more  cold 

Than  daisies  in  the  mould, 
Where  children  spell,  athwart  the  churchyard  gate, 

His  name  and  life's  brief  date. 
Pray  for  him,  gentle  souls,   whoe'er  you  be, 

And,  O,  pray  too  for  me! 


? ?8.  Rose  Aylmer 

AH,  what  avails  the  sceptred  race ! 
•*"*•     Ah,  what  the  form  divine! 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace ! 
Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine. 

Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful  eyes 

May  weep,  but  never  see, 
A  night  of  memories  and  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee. 
660 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 


p.  I  an  the 

"CROM  you,   lanthe,  little  troubles  pass 
•*•       Like  little  ripples  down  a  sunny  river  ; 
Your  pleasures  spring  like  daisies  in  the  grass, 
Cut  down,  and  up  again  as  blithe  as  ever. 


$60.  Twenty  Tears  hence 

^WENTY  years  hence  my  eyes  may  grow, 

If  not  quite  dim,  yet  rather  so ; 
Yet  yours  from  others  they  shall  know, 
Twenty  years  hence. 


T 


Twenty  years  hence,   though  it  may  hap 
That  I  be  call'd  to  take  a  nap 
In  a  cool  cell  where  thunder-clap 
Was  never  heard, 

There  breathe  but  o'er  my  arch  of  grass 
A  not  too  sadly  sigh'd   '  Alas  ! ' 
And  I  shall  catch,  ere  you  can  pass, 
That  winged  word. 


PAST  ruin'd  Ilion  Helen  lives, 
*•        Alcestis  rises  from  the  shades; 
Verse  calls  them  forth;    'tis  verse  that  gives 
Immortal  youth  to  mortal  maids. 

Soon  shall  Oblivion's  deepening  veil 
Hide  all  the  peopled  hills  you  see, 

The  gay,   the  proud,   while  lovers  hail 
These  many  summers  you  and  me. 

661 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 
562.     'Proud  Iford  you  never  spoke 

JDROUD  word  you  never  spoke,  but  you  will  speak 
*        Four  not  exempt  from  pride  some  future  day. 
Resting  on  one  white  hand  a  warm  wet  cheek, 
Over  my  open  volume  you  will  say, 
'  This  man  loved  me  '  —  then  rise  and  trip  away. 

56$.  Resignation 

YVYHY,  why  repine,  my  pensive  friend, 

At  pleasures  slipp'd  away? 
Some  the  stern  Fates  will  never  lend, 
And  all  refuse  to  stay. 

I  see  the  rainbow  in  the  sky, 

The  dew  upon  the  grass  ; 
I  see  them,  and  I  ask  not  why 

They  glimmer  or  they  pass. 

With  folded  arms  I  linger  not 

To  call  them  back;    'twere  vain: 
In  this,  or  in  some  other  spot, 

I  know  they'll  shine  again. 


Mother,  I  cannot  mind  my  Wheel 

A/T  OTHER,   I  cannot  mind  my  wheel; 
My  fingers  ache,  my  lips  are  dry: 
O,  if  you  felt  the  pain  I  feel! 
But  O,  who  ever  felt  as  I? 

No  longer  could  I  doubt  him  true  — 

All  other  men  may  use  deceit; 
He  always  said  my  eyes  were  blue, 

And  often  swore  my  lips  were  sweet. 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 


r.  Autumn 

A/TILD  is  the  parting  year,  and  sweet 
•*•'•*•      The  odour  of  the  falling  spray; 
Life  passes  on  more  rudely  fleet, 
And  balmless  is  its  closing  day. 

I  wait  its  close,   I  court  its  gloom, 
But  mourn  that  never  must  there  fall 

Or  on  my  breast  or  on  my  tomb 

The  tear  that  would  have  soothed  it  all. 


$66.  Remain  ! 

"D  EMAIN,  ah  not  in  youth  alone  ! 

^     —  Tho'  youth,  where  you  are,  long  will  stay- 

But  when  my  summer  days  are  gone, 

And  my  autumnal  haste  away. 
*  Can  I  be  always  by  your  side  ?  ' 

No  ;    but  the  hours  you  can,   you  must, 
Nor  rise  at  Death's  approaching  stride, 

Nor  go  when  dust  is  gone  to  dust. 


$67.  Absence 

JLJERE,  ever  since  you  went  abroad, 
1  •*•      If  there  be  change,  no  change  I  see: 
I  only  walk  our  wonted  road, 
The  road  is  only  walk'd  by  me. 

Yes  ;    I  forgot  ;    a  change  there  is  — 
Was  it  of  that  you  bade  me  tell? 

I  catch  at  times,  at  times  I  miss 

The  sight,  the  tone,   I  know  so  well. 

663 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 

Only  two  months  since  you  stood  here? 

Two  shortest  months  ?    Then  tell  me  why 
Voices  are  harsher  than  they  were, 

And  tears  are  longer  ere  they  dry. 

$68.  Of  Clementina. 

TN  Clementina's  artless  mien 
•*•      Lucilla  asks  me  what  I  see, 
And  are  the  roses  of  sixteen 

Enough  for  me? 

Lucilla  asks,  if  that  be  all, 

Have  I  not  cull'd  as  sweet  before: 
Ah  yes,   Lucilla !    and  their  fall 
I  still  deplore. 

I  now  behold  another  scene, 

Where  Pleasure  beams  with  Heaven's  own  light, 
More  pure,  more  constant,  more  serene, 
And  not  less  bright. 

Faith,  on  whose  breast  the  Loves  repose, 

Whose  chain  of  flowers  no  force  can  sever, 
And  Modesty  who,  when  she  goes, 
Is  gone  for   ever. 

$69.  lanthe's  Question 

'  T~*\  O  you  remember  me  ?  or  are  you  proud  ? ' 
**^     Lightly  advancing  thro'  her  star-trimm'd  crowd, 
lanthe  said,  and  look'd  into  my  eyes. 
'  A  ye j,  a  yes  to  both  :    for  Memory 
Where  you  but  once  have  been  must  ever  be, 

And  at  your  voice  Pride  from  his  throne  must  rise.' 
664 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 


T 


$70.  On  Catullus 

'ELL   me  not  what  too  well  I   know 

About  the  bard  of  Sirraio. 
Yes,  in  Thalia's  son 
Such  stains  there  are — as  when  a  Grace 
Sprinkles  another's  laughing  face 
With  nectar,  and  runs  on. 


CTAND  close  around,  ye  Stygian  set, 
^     With  Dirce  in  one  boat  convey'd! 
Or  Charon,   seeing,   may  forget 
That  he  is  old  and  she  a  shade. 


A1 


??2.          Alciphron  and  Leucippe 

N  ancient  chestnut's  blossoms  threw 

Their  heavy  odour  over  two : 
Leucippe,   it  is  said,  was  one; 
The  other,  then,  was  Alciphron. 
'  Come,  come !    why  should  we  stand  beneath 
This  hollow  tree's  unwholesome  breath  ? ' 
Said  Alciphron,    '  here 's  not  a  blade 
Of  grass  or  moss,  and  scanty  shade. 
Come ;    it  is  just  the  hour  to  rove 
In  the  lone  dingle  shepherds  love ; 
There,   straight  and  tall,  the  hazel  twig 
Divides  the  crooked  rock-held  fig, 
O'er  the  blue  pebbles  where  the  rill 
In  winter  runs  and  may  run  still. 
Come  then,  while  fresh  and  calm  the  air, 
And  while  the  shepherds  are  not  there.' 

663 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 

Leudppe.   But  I  would  rather  go  when  they 
Sit  round  about  and  sing  and  play. 
Then  why  so  hurry  me  ?    for  you 
Like  play  and  song,  and  shepherds  too. 

Aldphron.   I  like  the  shepherds  very  well, 

And  song  and  play,  as  you  can  tell. 

But  there  is  play,   I  sadly  fear, 

And  song  I  would  not  have  you  hear. 

Leucippe.  What  can  it  be  ?     What  can  it  be  ? 

Aldphron.  To  you  may  none  of  them  repeat 

The  play  that  you  have  play'd  with  me, 
The  song  that  made  your  bosom  beat. 

Leucippe.  Don't  keep  your  arm  about  my  waist. 
Aldphron.  Might  you  not  stumble? 

Leudppe.  Well  then,  do. 

But  why  are  we  in  all  this  haste  ? 

Aldphron.  To  sing. 
Leudppe.  Alas  !    and  not  play  too  ? 

^73.  Tears 

VEARS,  many  parti-colour'd  years, 
A      Some  have  crept  on,  and  some  have  flown 
Since  first  before  me  fell  those  tears 
I   never  could  see  fall  alone. 

Years,  not  so  many,  are  to  come, 
Years  not  so  varied,  when  from  you 

One  more  will  fall :    when,  carried  home, 
I  see  it  not,  nor  hear  Adieu. 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 


Separation 

'  I  "HERE  is  a  mountain  and  a  wood  between  us, 
•*•      Where  the  lone  shepherd  and  late  bird  have  seen  us 

Morning  and  noon  and  eventide  repass. 
Between  us  now  the  mountain  and  the  wood 
Seem  standing  darker  than  last  year  they  stood, 
And  say  we  must  not  cross — alas  1    alas ! 


//>"•  Late  Leaves 

HnHE  leaves  are  falling;    so  am  I; 

The  few  late  flowers  have  moisture  in  the  eye : 

So  have  I  too. 

Scarcely  on  any  bough  is  heard 
Joyous,   or  even  unjoyous,  bird 

The  whole  wood  through. 

Winter  may  come:    he  brings  but  nigher 
His  circle  (yearly  narrowing)  to  the  fire 

Where  old  friends  meet. 
Let  him ;    now  heaven  is  overcast, 
And  spring  and  summer  both  are  past, 

And  all  things  sweet. 


f?6.  Pints 

T    STROVE  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my  strife. 

Nature  I  loved  and,  next  to  Nature,  Art : 
I  warm'd  both  hands  before  the  fire  of  life; 
It  sinks,  and  I  am  ready  to  depart. 


CHARLES  LAMB 

^77.        The  Old  Familiar  Faces 

1775-1834 

T    HAVE  had  playmates,   I  have  had  companions, 
*"      In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful  school-days — 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  been  laughing,   I  have  been  carousing, 
Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my  bosom  cronies — 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  loved  a  Love  once,   fairest  among  women: 
Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I  must  not  see  her — 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no  man : 
Like  an  ingrate,   I  left  my  friend  abruptly; 
Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Ghost-like  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of  my  childhood, 
Earth  seem'd  a  desert  I  was  bound  to  traverse, 
Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a  brother, 
Why  wert  not  thou  born  in  my  father's  dwelling? 
So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces — 

How  some  they  have  died,   and  some  they  have  left  me, 
And  some  are  taken  from  me;   all  are  departed — 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


CHARLES  LAMB 


//«?.  Hester 

VVTHEN  maidens  such  as  Hester  die 

Their  place  ye  may  not  well  supply, 

Though  ye  among  a  thousand  try 
With  vain  endeavour. 

A  month  or  more  hath  she  been  dead, 
Yet  cannot  I  by  force  be  led 
To  think  upon  the  wormy  bed 
And  her  together. 

A  springy  motion  in  her  gait, 
A  rising  step,  did  indicate 
Of  pride  and  joy  no  common  rate, 
That  flush'd  her  spirit: 

I  know  not  by  what  name  beside 
I  shall  it  call :    if  'twas  not  pride, 
It  was  a  joy  to  that  allied, 
She  did  inherit. 

Her  parents  held  the  Quaker  rale, 
Which  doth  the  human  feeling  cool  ; 
But  she  was  train'd  in  Nature's  school  j 
Nature  had  blest  her. 

A  waking  eye,  a  prying  mind; 
A  heart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to  bind  ; 
A  hawk's  keen  sight  ye  cannot  blind ; 
Ye  could  not  Hester. 

My  sprightly  neighbour  !    gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore, 
Shall  we  not  meet,  as  heretofore, 
Some  summer  morning — 

669 


CHARLES  LAMB 

When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a  ray 
Hath  struck  a  bliss  upon  the  day, 
A  bliss  that  would  not  go  away, 
A  sweet  forewarning? 

.  On  an  Infant  tying  as  soon  as  born 

I    SAW  where  in  the  shroud  did  lurk 
A  curious  frame  of  Nature's  work ; 
A  floweret  crush'd  in  the  bud, 
A  nameless  piece  of  Babyhood, 
Was  in  her  cradle-coffin  lying; 
Extinct,  with  scarce  the  sense  of  dying : 
So  soon  to  exchange  the  imprisoning  womb 
For  darker  closets  of  the  tomb ! 
She  did  but  ope  an  eye,  and  put 
A  clear  beam  forth,  then  straight  up  shut 
For  the  long  dark:    ne'er  more  to  see 
Through  glasses  of  mortality. 

Riddle  of  destiny,  who  can  show 
What  thy  short  visit  meant,  or  know 
What  thy  errand  here  below  ? 
Shall  we  say  that  Nature  blind 
Check'd  her  hand,  and  changed  her  mind, 
Just  when  she  had  exactly  wrought 
A  finish'd  pattern  without  fault? 
Could  she  flag,  or  could  she  tire, 
Or  lack'd  she  the  Promethean  fire 
(With  her  nine  moons'  long  workings  sicken'd) 
That  should  thy  little  limbs  have  quicken'd  ? 
Limbs  so  firm,  they  seem'd  to  assure 
Life  of  health,  and  days  mature: 
Woman's  self  in  miniature ! 
670 


CHARLES  LAMB 

Limbs  so  fair,  they  might  supply 
(Themselves  now  but  cold  imagery) 
The  sculptor  to  make  Beauty  by. 
Or  did  the  stern-eyed  Fate  descry 
That  babe  or  mother,   one  must  die ; 
So  in  mercy  left  the  stock 
And  cut  the  branch ;    to  save  the  shock 
Of  young  years  widow'd,  and  the  pain 
When  single  state  comes  back  again 
To  the  lone  man  who,  reft  of  wife, 
Thenceforward  drags  a  maimed  life  ? 
The  economy  of  Heaven  is  dark, 
And  wisest  clerks  have  miss'd  the  mark, 
Why  human  buds,   like  this,   should  fall, 
More  brief  than  fly  ephemeral 
That  has  his  day ;    while  shrivell'd  crones 
Stiffen  with  age  to  stocks  and  stones ; 
And  crabbed  use  the  conscience  sears 
In  sinners  of  an  hundred  years. 

Mother's  prattle,  mother's  kiss, 
Baby  fond,  thou  ne'er  wilt  miss: 
Rites,  which  custom  does  impose, 
Silver  bells,  and  baby  clothes  ; 
Coral  redder  than  those  lips 
Which  pale  death  did  late  eclipse; 
Music  framed  for  infants'  glee, 
Whistle  never  tuned  for  thee ; 
Though  thou  want'st  not,  thou  shalt  have  them, 
Loving  hearts  were  they  which  gave  them. 
Let  not  one  be  missing  ;    nurse. 
See  them  laid  upon  the  hearse 
Of  infant  slain  by  doom  perverse. 
Why  should  kings  and  nobles  have 

671 


CHARLES  LAMB 

Pictured  trophies  to  their  grave, 
And  we,   churls,  to  thee  deny 
Thy  pretty  toys  with  thee  to  lie — 
A  more  harmless  vanity? 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL 

f8o.         Te  Mariners  of  England 

1777- -.844 

YE  Mariners  of  England 
That  guard  our  native  seas! 
Whose  flag  has  braved  a  thousand  years 

The  battle  and  the  breeze  ! 
Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 

To  match  another  foe ; 
And  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ! 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave — 
For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame. 

And  Ocean  was  their  grave : 
Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 
As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow! 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks, 

No  towers  along  the  steep ; 
Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain-waves, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 
With  thunders  from  her  native  oak 

She  quells  the  floods  below, 
As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blowl 
When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow, 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn  ; 
Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 
Then,  then,   ye  ocean-warriors  ! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 
To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow ! 
When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more.; 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 


.         The  Battle  of  the  Baltic 

/""\F  Nelson  and  the  North 

^—'      Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown, 

When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 

All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown, 

And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly  shone; 

By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand 

In  a  bold  determined  hand, 

And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 

Led  them  on. 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL 

Like  leviathans  afloat 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine, 

While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 

On  the  lofty  British  line: 

It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime: 

As  they  drifted  on  their  path 

There  was  silence  deep  as  death, 

And  the  boldest  held  his  breath 

For  a  time. 

But  the  might  of  England  flush'd 

To  anticipate  the  scene  ; 

And  her  van  the  fleeter  rush'd 

O'er  the  deadly  space  between : 

'  Hearts  of  oak ! '    our  captains  cried,  when  each  gun 

From  its  adamantine  lips 

Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 

Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 

Of  the  sun. 

Again  !    again  !    again  ! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 

Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back  ; — 

Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom : — 

Then  ceased — and  all  is  wail, 

As  they  strike  the  shatter'd  sail, 

Or  in  conflagration  pale 

Light  the  gloom. 

Out  spoke  the  victor  then 

As  he  hail'd  them  o'er  the  wave: 

*  Ye  are  brothers  !    ye  are  men  ! 

And  we  conquer  but  to  save: — 

674 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL 

So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring; 
But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet, 
With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet, 
And  make  submission  meet 
To  our  King.'  .  .  . 

Now  joy,  old  England,  raise  ! 

For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 

By  the  festal  cities'  blaze, 

Whilst  the  wine-cup  shines  in  light! 

And  yet  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar, 

Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep 

Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 

By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 

Elsinore  ! 


THOMAS  MOORE 

$82.          The  Toung  May  Moon 

1779-1851 

"THE  young  May  moon  is  beaming,  love, 

The  glow-worm's  lamp  is  gleaming,  love ; 

How  sweet  to  rove 

Through  Morna's  grove, 
When  the  drowsy  world  is  dreaming,   love  ! 
Then  awake! — the  heavens  look  bright,  my  dear, 
'Tis  never  too  late  for  delight,   my  dear ; 

And  the  best  of  all  ways 

To  lengthen  our  days 
Is  to  steal  a  few  hours  from  the  night,  my  dear ! 

Now  all  the  world  is  sleeping,  love, 

But  the  Sage,  his  star-watch  keeping,  love, 

675 


THOMAS  MOORE 

And  I,  whose  star 

More  glorious  far 

Is  the  eye  from  that  casement  peeping,  love. 
Then  awake  !  —  till  rise  of  sun,  my  dear, 
The  Sage's  glass  we'll  shun,  my  dear, 

Or  in  watching  the  flight 

Of  bodies  of  light 
He  might  happen  to  take  thee  for  one,  my  dear! 


j-tfj.     The  Irish  "Peasant  to  His  Mistress 

•"THROUGH   grief  and  through   danger  thy   smile   hath 
•*•       cheer'd  my  way, 

Till  hope  seem'd  to  bud  from  each  thorn  that  round  me  lay  ; 
The  darker  our  fortune,  the  brighter  our  pure  love  burn'd, 
Till  shame  into  glory,  till  fear  into  zeal  was  turn'd  : 
Yes,  slave  as  I  was,  in  thy  arms  my  spirit  felt  free, 
And  bless'd  even  the  sorrows  that  made  me  more  dear  to 
thee. 

Thy  rival  was  honour'd,  while  thou  wert  wrong'd  and  scorn'd  ; 
Thy  crown  was  of  briers,  while  gold  her  brows  adorn'd  ; 
She  woo'd  me  to  temples,  whilst  thou  lay'st  hid  in  caves  ; 
Her  friends  were  all  masters,  while  thine,  alas  !  were  slaves  ; 
Yet  cold  in  the  earth,  at  thy  feet,  I  would  rather  be 
Than  wed  what  I  loved  not,  or  turn  one  thought  from  thee. 

They  slander  thee  sorely,  who  say  thy  vows  are  frail— 
Hadst  thou  been  a  false  one,  thy  cheek  had  look'd  less  pale  ! 
They  say,  too,  so  long  thou  hast  worn  those  lingering  chains, 
That  deep  in  thy  heart  they  have  printed  their  servile  stains  : 
O,  foul  is  the  slander!—  no  chain  could  that  soul  subdue- 
Where  shineth  thy  spirit,  there  Liberty  shineth  too! 
676 


THOMAS  MOORE 


The  Light  of  Other  T>ays 

/"^\FT,  in  the  stilly  night, 
^^      Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me: 
The  smiles,  the  tears 
Of  boyhood's  years, 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken; 
The  eyes  that  shone, 
Now  dimm'd  and  gone, 
The   cheerful  hearts  now  broken  ! 
Thus,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

When  I  remember  all 

The  friends,  so  link'd  together, 
I've  seen  around  me  fall 

Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather, 
I  feel  like  one 
Who  treads  alone 
Some  banquet-hall  deserted, 
Whose  lights  are  fled, 
Whose  garlands  dead, 
And  all  but  he  departed! 
Thus,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me. 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 


THOMAS  MOORE 
f8?.    4t  the  Mid  Hour  of  Night 

A  T  the  mid  hour  of  night,  when  stars  are  weeping,  I  fly 
**•     To  the  lone  vale  we  loved,  when  life  shone  warm  in 

thine  eye ; 

And  I  think  oft,  if  spirits  can  steal  from  the  regions  of  air 
To  revisit  past  scenes  of  delight,  thou  wilt  come  to  me  there, 
And  tell  me  our  love  is  remember'd  even  in  the  sky. 

Then  I  sing  the  wild  song  it  once  was  rapture  to  hear, 
When  our  voices  commingling  breathed  like  one  on  the  ear ; 
And  as  Echo  far  off  through  the  vale  my  sad  orison  rolls, 
I  think,   O  my  love !    'tis  thy  voice  from  the  Kingdom 

of  Souls 
Faintly  answering  still  the  notes  that  once  were  so  dear. 


EDWARD  THURLOW,  LORD  THURLOW 

586.  May 

1781-1829 

MAY  !    queen  of  blossoms, 
And  fulfilling  flowers, 
With  what  pretty  music 

Shall  we  charm  the  hours  ? 
Wilt  thou  have  pipe  and  reed, 
Blown  in  the  open  mead  ? 
Or  to  the  lute  give  heed 
In  the  green  bowers  ? 

Thou  hast  no  need  of  us, 

Or  pipe  or  wire; 
Thou  hast  the  golden  bee 

Ripen'd  with  fire ; 
678 


LORD  THURLOW 

And  many  thousand  more 
Songsters,  that  thee  adore, 
Filling  earth's  grassy  floor 
With  new  desire. 

Thou  hast  thy  mighty  herds, 

Tame  and  free-livers; 
Doubt  not,  thy  music  too 

In  the  deep  rivers; 
And  the  whole  plumy  flight 
Warbling  the  day  and  night — 
Up  at  the  gates  of  light, 

See,   the  lark  quivers ! 

EBENEZER  ELLIOT 

.  Battle  Song 

1781-1849 

TT\AY,   like  our  souls,  is  fiercely  dark; 
***         What  then  ?     'Tis  day ! 
We  sleep  no  more ;    the  cock  crows — hark  1 

To  arms  !    away  ! 
They  come !    they  come !    the  knell  is  rung 

Of  us  or  them ; 
Wide  o'er  their  march  the  pomp  is  flung 

Of  gold  and  gem. 
What  collar'd  hound  of  lawless  sway. 

To  famine  dear — 
What  pension'd  slave  of  Attila, 

Leads  in  the  rear? 
Come  they  from  Scythian  wilds  afar, 

Our  blood  to  spill? 
Wear  they  the  livery  of  the  Czar  ? 

They  do  his  will. 

679 


EBENEZER  ELLIOT 

Nor  tassell'd  silk,   nor  epaulet, 

Nor  plume,  nor  torse — 
No  splendour  gilds,  all  sternly  met, 

Our  foot  and  horse. 
But,  dark  and  still,  we  inly  glow, 

Condensed  in  ire ! 
Strike,  tawdry  slaves,  and  ye  shall  know 

Our  gloom  is  fire. 
In  vain  your  pomp,   ye  evil  powers, 

Insults  the  land ; 
Wrongs,  vengeance,  and  the  Cause  are  ours, 

And  God's  right  hand ! 
Madmen !    they  trample  into  snakes 

The  wormy  clod ! 
Like  fire,  beneath  their  feet  awakes 

The  sword  of  God ! 
Behind,  before,  above,  below, 

They  rouse  the  brave ; 
Where'er  they  go,  they  make  a  foe, 

Or  find  a  grave. 

?.  Tlaint 

T">ARK,  deep,  and  cold  the  current  flows 
•^•"^      Unto  the  sea  where  no  wind  blows, 
Seeking  the  land  which  no  one  knows. 

O'er  its  sad  gloom  still  comes  and  goes 
The  mingled  wail  of  friends  and  foes, 
Borne  to  the  land  which  no  one  knows. 

Why  shrieks  for  help  yon  wretch,  who  goes 
With  millions,  from  a  world  of  woes, 
Unto  the  land  which  no  one  knows  ? 


EBENEZER  ELLIOT 

Though  myriads  go  with  him  who  goes, 
Alone  he  goes  where  no  wind  blows, 
Unto  the  land  which  no  one  knows. 

For  all  must  go  where  no  wind  blows, 
And  none  can  go  for  him  who  goes ; 
None,  none  return  whence  no  one  knows. 

Yet  why  should  he  who  shrieking  goes 
With  millions,  from  a  world  of  woes, 
Reunion  seek  with  it  or  those  ? 

Alone  with  God,  where  no  wind  blows, 
And  Death,   his  shadow — doom'd,  he  goes: 
That  God  is  there  the  shadow  shows. 

O  shoreless  Deep,  where  no  wind  blows ! 
And  thou,   O   Land  which  no  one  knows ! 
That  God  is  All,   His  shadow  shows. 


ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM 

.f#p.  The  Sun  rises  bright  in  France 

1784-1842 

"THE  sun  rises  bright  in  France, 
*-       And  fair  sets  he; 
But  he  has  tint  the  blythe  blink  he  had 
In  my  ain  countree. 

O,   it's  nae  my  ain  ruin 

That  saddens  aye  my  e'e, 
But  the  dear  Marie  I  left  behin* 

Wi'  sweet  bairnies  three. 

?.  tint]  lost. 

Z3  681 


ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM 

My  lanely  hearth  burn'd  bonnie, 
And  smiled  my  ain  Marie; 

I've  left  a*  my  heart  behin' 
In  my  ain  countree. 

The  bud  comes  back  to  summer, 
And  the  blossom  to  the  bee ; 

But  I'll  win  back,   O  never, 
To  my  ain  countree. 

O,  I  am  leal  to  high  Heaven, 
Where  soon  I  hope  to  be, 

An'  there  I'll  meet  ye  a'  soon 
Frae  my  ain  countree ! 


fpo.  Hame,  Hame,  Hame 

l_JAME,  hame,  hame,  O  hame  fain  wad  I  be — 
•*•  •*•      O  hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  countree  ! 

When  the  flower  is  i'  the  bud  and  the  leaf  is  on  the  tree, 
The  larks   shall  sing  me  hame  in  my  ain  countree ; 
Hame,  hame,  hame,   O  hame  fain  wad  I  be — 
O  hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  countree ! 

The  green  leaf  o'  loyaltie  's  beginning  for  to  fa', 
The  bonnie  White  Rose  it  is  withering  an'  a' ; 
But  I'll  water  't  wi'  the  blude  of  usurping  tyrannic, 
An'  green  it  will  graw  in  my  ain  countree. 

O,  there 's  nocht  now  frae  ruin  my  country  can  save. 
But  the  keys  o'  kind  heaven,  to  open  the  grave; 
That  a'  the  noble  martyrs  wha  died  for  loyaltie 
May  rise  again  an'  fight  for  their  ain  countree. 


ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM 

The  great  now  are  gane,  a'  wha  ventured  to  save, 
The  new  grass  is  springing  on  the  tap  o*  their  grave  ; 
But  the  sun  through  the  mirk  blinks  blythe  in  my  e'e, 
'  I'll  shine  on  ye  yet  in  your  ain  countree.' 

Hame,  hame,   hame,   O  hame  fain  wad  I  be — 
O  hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  countree ! 

f<?i.         The  Spring  of  the  Tear 

/^"*  ONE  were  but  the  winter  cold, 
^"-*      And  gone  were  but  the  snow, 
I  could  sleep  in  the  wild  woods 
Where  primroses  blow. 

Cold's  the  snow  at  my  head, 

And  cold  at  my  feet; 
And  the  finger  of  death  's  at  my  e'en, 

Closing  them  to  sleep. 
Let  none  tell  my  father 

Or  my  mother  so  dear, — 
I'll  meet  them  both  in  heaven 

At  the  spring  of  the  year. 

LEIGH  HUNT 

rp2.  Jenny  kiss'd  Me 

•'      -^  1784-1859 

T  ENNY  kiss'd  me  when  we  met, 
^       Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in ; 
Time,  you  thief,  who  love  to  get 

Sweets  into  your  list,   put  that  in ! 
Say  I'm  weary,  say  I'm  sad, 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  mtss'd  mCj 
Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add, 
Jenny  kiss'd  me. 


THOMAS  LOVE  PEACOCK 
3.  Love  and  Age  i;8s_ig66 

T    PLAY'D  with  you  'mid  cowslips  blowing, 
*      When  I  was  six  and  you  were  four; 
When  garlands  weaving,  flower-balls  throwing, 

Were  pleasures  soon  to  please  no  more. 
Through  groves  and  meads,  o'er  grass  and  heather, 

With  little  playmates,  to  and  fro, 
We  wander'd  hand  in  hand  together ; 

But  that  was  sixty  years  ago. 

You  grew  a  lovely  roseate  maiden, 

And  still  our  early  love  was  strong ; 
Still  with  no  care  our  days  were  laden, 

They  glided  joyously  along; 
And  I  did  love  you  very  dearly, 

How  dearly  words  want  power  to  show; 
I  thought  your  heart  was  touch'd  as  nearly; 

But  that  was  fifty  years  ago. 

Then  other  lovers  came  around  you, 

Your  beauty  grew  from  year  to  year, 
And  many  a  splendid  circle  found  you 

The  centre  of  its  glittering  sphere. 
I  saw  you  then,  first  vows  forsaking, 

On  rank  and  wealth  your  hand  bestow; 
O,  then  I  thought  my  heart  was  breaking  ! — 

But  that  was  forty  years  ago. 

And  I  lived  on,  to  wed  another: 

No  cause  she  gave  me  to  repine ; 
684 


THOMAS  LOVE  PEACOCK 

And  when  I  heard  you  were  a  mother, 
I  did  not  wish  the  children  mine. 

My  own  young  flock,  in  fair  progression, 
Made  up  a  pleasant  Christmas  row: 

My  joy  in  them  was  past  expression  ; 
But  that  was  thirty  years  ago. 

You  grew  a  matron  plump  and  comely, 

You  dwelt  in  fashion's  brightest  blaze; 
My  earthly  lot  was  far  more  homely  ; 

But  I  too  had  my  festal  days. 
No  merrier  eyes  have  ever  glisten'd 

Around  the  hearth- stone's  wintry  glow, 
Than  when  my  youngest  child  was  christen'd 

But  that  was  twenty  years  ago. 

Time  pass'd.     My  eldest  girl  was  married, 

And  I  am  now  a  grandsire  gray; 
One  pet  of  four  years  old  I've  carried 

Among  the  wild-flower'd  meads  to  play. 
In  our  old  fields  of  childish  pleasure, 

Where  now,  as  then,  the  cowslips  blow, 
She  fills  her  basket's  ample  measure ; 

And  that  is  not  ten  years  ago. 

But  though  first  love's  impassion'd  blindness 

Has  pass'd  away  in  colder  light, 
I  still  have  thought  of  you  with  kindness, 

And  shall  do,  till  our  last  good-night. 
The  ever-rolling  silent  hours 

Will  bring  a  time  we  shall  not  know, 
When  our  young  days  of  gathering  flowers 

Will  be  an  hundred  years  ago. 


THOMAS  LOVE  PEACOCK 
The  Grave  of  Love 

T    DUG,  beneath  the  cypress  shade, 
*•     What  well  might  seem  an  elfin's  grave ; 
And  every  pledge  in  earth  I  laid, 
That  erst  thy  false  affection  gave. 

I  press'd  them  down  the  sod  beneath  ; 

I  placed  one  mossy  stone  above; 
And  twined  the  rose's  fading  wreath 

Around  the  sepulchre  of  love. 

Frail  as  thy  love,  the  flowers  were  dead 
Ere  yet  the  evening  sun  was  set: 

But  years  shall  see  the  cypress  spread, 
Immutable  as  my  regret. 

f .          Three  Men  of  Gotham 

C  EAMEN  three  !    What  men  be  ye  ? 

^     Gotham's  three  wise  men  we  be. 

Whither  in  your  bowl  so  free  ? 

To  rake  the  moon  from  out  the  sea. 

The  bowl  goes  trim.     The  moon  doth   shine. 

And  our  ballast  is  old  wine. — 

And  your  ballast  is  old  wine. 

Who  art  thou,  so  fast  adrift  ? 
I  am  he  they  call  Old  Care. 
Here  on  board  we  will  thee  lift. 
No  :    I  may  not  enter  there. 
Wherefore  so  ?    'Tis  Jove's  decree, 
In  a  bowl  Care  may  not  be. — 
In  a  bowl  Care  may  not  be. 


THOMAS  LOVE  PEACOCK 

Fear  ye  not  the  waves  that  roll  ? 

No  :    in  charmed  bowl  we  swim. 

What  the  charm  that  floats  the  bowl  ? 

Water  may  not  pass  the  brim. 

The  bowl  goes  trim.     The  moon  doth  shine. 

And  our  ballast  is  old  wine. — 

And  your  ballast  is  old  wine. 

CAROLINE  SOUTHEY 
596.  To  T>eath  1787-1854 

,  /*"^OME  not  in  terrors  clad,  to  claim 
^•^      An  unresisting  prey  : 
Come  like  an  evening  shadow,  Death  ! 

So  stealthily,  so  silently  ! 
And  shut  mine  eyes,  and  steal  my  breath ; 
Then  willingly,  O  willingly, 
With  thee  I'll  go  away ! 

What  need  to  clutch  with  iron  grasp 
What  gentlest  touch  may  take  ? 
What  need  with  aspect  dark  to  scare, 

So  awfully,  so  terribly, 
The  weary  soul  'would  hardly  care, 
Call'd  quietly,   call'd  tenderly, 

From  thy  dread  power  to  break  ? 

'Tis  not  as  when  thou  markest  out 
The  young,  the  blest,  the  gay, 
The  loved,  the  loving — they  who  dream 

So  happily,  so  hopefully ; 
Then  harsh  thy  kindest  call  may  seem, 
And  shrinkingly,  reluctantly, 
The  summon'd  may  obey. 


CAROLINE  SOUTHEY 

But  I  have  drunk  enough  of  life — 

The  cup  assign'd  to  me 
Dash'd  with  a  little  sweet  at  best, 

So  scantily,   so  scantily — 
To  know  full  well  that  all  the  rest 
More  bitterly,  more  bitterly, 
Drugg'd  to  the  last  will  be. 

And  I  may  live  to  pain  some  heart 

That  kindly  cares  for  me  : 
To  pain,  but  not  to  bless.     O  Death ! 

Come  quietly — come  lovingly — 
And  shut  mine  eyes,  and  steal  my  breath; 
Then  willingly,   O  willingly, 
I'll  go  away  with  thee  1 


GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON,  LORD  BYRON 

y^7.  When  we  T^wo  parted 

1788-1824 

WfHEN  we  two  parted 

^       In  silence  and  tears, 
Half  broken-hearted 

To  sever  for  years, 
Pale  grew  thy  cheek  and  cold, 

Colder  thy  kiss; 
Truly  that  hour  foretold 

Sorrow  to  this. 

The  dew  of  the  morning 

Sunk  chill  on  my  brow — 
It  felt  like  the  warning 

Of  what  I  feel  now. 


LORD  BYRON 

Thy  vows  are  all  broken, 
And  light  is  thy  fame: 

I  hear  thy  name  spoken, 
And  share  in  its  shame. 

They  name  thee  before  me, 

A  knell  to  mine  ear ; 
A  shudder  comes  o'er  me — 

Why  wert  thou  so  dear? 
They  know  not  I  knew  thee, 

Who  knew  thee  too  well : 
Long,  long  shall  I  rue  thee, 

Too  deeply  to  tell. 

In  secret  we  met — 

In  silence  I  grieve, 
That  thy  heart  could  forget, 

Thy  spirit  deceive. 
If  I  should  meet  thee 

After  long  years, 
How  should  I  greet  thee? 

With  silence  and  tears. 


For  Music 

"""THERE  be  none  of  Beauty's  daughters 
•*•       With  a  magic  like  thee ; 
And  like  music  on  the  waters 

Is  thy  sweet  voice  to  me : 
When,  as  if  its  sound  were  causing 
The  charmed  ocean's  pausing, 
The  waves  lie  still  and  gleaming, 
And  the  lull'd  winds  seem  dreaming: 

689 


LORD  BYRON 

And  the  midnight  moon  is  weaving 
Her  bright  chain  o'er  the  deep; 

Whose  breast  is  gently  heaving, 
As  an  infant's  asleep : 

So  the  spirit  bows  before  thee, 

To  listen  and  adore  thee; 

With  a  full  but  soft  emotion, 

Like  the  swell  of  Summer's  ocean. 

?pp.       We'll  go  no  more  a-roving 

CO,  we'll  go  no  more  a-roving 
^      So  late  into  the  night, 
Though  the  heart  be  still  as  loving, 
And  the  moon  be   still  as  bright. 

For  the  sword  outwears  its  sheath, 
And  the  soul  wears  out  the  breast, 

And  the  heart  must  pause  to  breathe, 
And  love  itself  have  rest. 

Though  the  night  was  made  for  loving, 
And  the  day  returns  too  soon, 

Yet  we'll  go  no  more  a-roving 
By  the  light  of  the  moon. 

600.  She  walks  in  Beauty 

OHE  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
^     Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies ; 
And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 

Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes : 
Thus  mellow'd  to  that  tender  light 

Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies, 
690 


LORD  BYRON 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 
Had  half  impair'd  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face; 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling-place. 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow, 
So  soft,   so  calm,   yet  eloquent, 

The  smiles  that  win,   the  tints  that  glow, 
But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 

A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 
A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent ! 


T 


60 1.  The  Isles  of  Greece 

E  isles  of  Greece!    the  isles  of  Greece! 
Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, 

Where  Delos  rose,   and  Phoebus  sprung  1 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet, 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 
The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse, 

The  hero's  harp,   the  lover's  lute, 
Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse : 

Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 
To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 
Than  your  sires'   '  Islands  of  the  Blest.' 
The  mountains  look  on  Marathon — 

And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea; 
And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dream'd  that  Greece  might  still  be  free ; 
For  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 
I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

69. 


LORD  BYRON 

A  king  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis; 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below, 
And  men  in  nations ; — all  were  his  1 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day — 

And  when  the  sun  set,  where  were  they  ? 

A  nd  where  are  they  ?   and  where  art  thou, 
My  country  ?    On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now — 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more  I 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 

Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine? 

'Tis  something  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  link'd  among  a  fetter'd  race, 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame, 
Even  as  I  sing,   suffuse  my  face; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here  ? 

For  Greeks  a  blush — for  Greece  a  tear. 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest? 

Must  we  but  blush? — Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth  I   render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead ! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae ! 

What,  silent  still  ?    and  silent  all  ? 

Ah!    no; — the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 

And  answer,   '  Let  one  living  head, 
But  one,  arise, — we  come,  we  come  1 ' 
Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 
693 


LORD  BYRON 

In  vain — in  vain:    strike  other  chords; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine! 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine! 
Hark !    rising  to  the  ignoble  call — 
How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal! 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet; 

Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone? 
Of  two  such  lessons,   why  forget 

The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one  ? 
You  have  the  letters  Cad/nus  gave — 
Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave? 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these! 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine : 

He  served — but  served  Polycrates — 
A  tyrant ;    but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 

Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend; 
That  tyrant  was  Miltiades! 

O   that  the  present  hour  would  lend 
Another  despot  of  the  kind ! 
Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

On  Suli's  rock,  and  Parga's  shore, 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore; 
And  there,  perhaps,   some  seed  is  sown, 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 

693 


LORD  BYRON 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells } 

In  native  swords  and  native  ranks 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells : 

But  Turkish  force  and  Latin  fraud 

Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade — 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine; 

But  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 
My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 

Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep, 
Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I. 

May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep  ; 
There,  swan-like,   let  me  sing  and  die : 

A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine  — 

Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine ! 


SIR  AUBREY  DE  VERE 

602.  The  Children  Band 

1788-1846 

ALL  holy  influences  dwell  within 
•**•    The  breast  of  Childhood :    instincts  fresh  from  God 

Inspire  it,  ere  the  heart  beneath  the  rod 
Of  grief  hath  bled,  or  caught  the  plague  of  sin. 
How  mighty  was  that  fervour  which  could  win 
Its  way  to  infant  souls  ! — and  was  the  sod 
Of  Palestine  by  infant  Croises  trod  ? 
Like  Joseph  went  they  forth,  or  Benjamin, 
69* 


SIR  AUBREY  DE  VERE 

In  all  their  touching  beauty  to  redeem? 

And  did  their  soft  lips  kiss  the  Sepulchre? 
Alas  !    the  lovely  pageant  as  a  dream 

Faded !     They  sank  not  through  ignoble  fear ; 
They  felt  not  Moslem  steel.      By  mountain,   stream, 

In  sands,  in  fens,  they  died — no  mother  near ! 


CHARLES  WOLFE 

03.  The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore  after 

Corunna 

1791-1823 

"^OT  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
^      As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried; 
Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning, 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light 

And  the  lanthorn  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound  him ; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow ; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was  dead, 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

695 


CHARLES  WOLFE 

We  thought,  as  we  hollow'd  his  narrow  bed 

And  smooth'd  down  his  lonely  pillow, 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his  head, 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow! 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 

And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him — 
But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 

In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring ; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory ; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone, 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 

604.  To  Mary 

TF  I  had  thought  thou  couldst  have  died, 

I  might  not  weep  for  thee ; 
But  I  forgot,  when  by  thy  side, 

That  thou  couldst  mortal  be: 
It  never  through  my  mind  had  past 

The  time  would  e'er  be  o'er, 
And  I  on  thee  should  look  my  last, 

And  thou  shouldst  smile  no  more! 

And  still  upon  that  face  I  look, 

And  think  'twill  smile  again  ; 
And  still  the  thought  I  will  not  brook, 

That  I  must  look  in  vain. 
696 


CHARLES  WOLFE 

But  when  I  speak — thou  dost  not  say 
What  thou  ne'er  left'st  unsaid; 

And  now  I  feel,  as  well  I  may, 
Sweet  Mary,  thou  art  dead ! 

If  thou  wouldst  stay,  e'en  as  thou  art, 

All  cold  and  all  serene — 
I  still  might  press  thy  silent  heart, 

And  where  thy  smiles  have  been. 
While  e'en  thy  chill,  bleak  corse  I  have, 

Thou  seemest  still  mine  own  ; 
But  there — I  lay  thee  in  thy  grave, 

And  I  am  now  alone ! 

I  do  not  think,  where'er  thou  art, 

Thou  hast  forgotten  me ; 
And  I,  perhaps,  may  soothe  this  heart 

In  thinking  too  of  thee : 
Yet  there  was  round  thee  such  a  dawn 

Of  light  ne'er  seen  before, 
As  fancy  never  could  have  drawn, 

And  never  can  restore ! 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

6or.  Hymn  of  Tan 

1792-1822 

PROM  the  forests  and  highlands 
-*•        We  come,  we  come; 
From  the  river-girt  islands, 

Where  loud  waves  are  dumb, 
Listening  to  my  sweet  pipings. 

69? 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

The  wind  in  the  reeds  and  the  rushes, 

The  bees  on  the  bells  of  thyme, 
The  birds  on  the  myrtle  bushes, 
The  cicale  above  in  the  lime, 
And  the  lizards  below  in  the  grass, 
Were  as  silent  as  ever  old  Tmolus  was, 
Listening  to  my  sweet  pipings. 

Liquid  Peneus  was  flowing, 
And  all  dark  Tempe  lay 
In  Pelion's  shadow,  outgrowing 
The  light  of  the  dying  day, 
Speeded  by  my  sweet  pipings. 

The  Sileni  and  Sylvans  and  Fauns, 

And  the  Nymphs  of  the  woods  and  waves, 
To  the  edge  of  the  moist  river-lawns, 

And  the  brink  of  the  dewy  caves, 
And  all  that  did  then  attend  and  follow, 
Were  silent  with  love,  as  you  now,   Apollo, 
With  envy  of  my  sweet  pipings. 

I  sang  of  the  dancing  stars, 

I  sang  of  the  daedal  earth, 
And  of  heaven,  and  the  giant  wars, 

And  love,  and  death,  and  birth. 
And  then  I  changed  my  pipings — 

Singing  how  down  the  vale  of  Maenalus 

I  pursued  a  maiden,  and  clasp'd  a  reed : 
Gods  and  men,  we  are  all  deluded  thus ; 

It  breaks  in  our  bosom,   and  then  we  bleed. 
All  wept — as  I  think  both  ye  now  would, 
If  envy  or  age  had  not  frozen  your  blood — 
At  the  sorrow  of  my  sweet  pipings. 
698 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


The  Invitation 

"DEST  and  brightest,  come  away! 

•*-'      Fairer  far  than  this  fair  Day, 

Which,  like  thee  to  those  in  sorrow, 

Comes  to  bid  a  sweet  good-morrow 

To  the  rough  Year  just  awake 

In  its  cradle  on  the  brake. 

The  brightest  hour  of  unborn  Spring, 

Through  the  winter  wandering, 

Found,  it  seems,  the  halcyon  Morn 

To  hoar  February  born. 

Bending  from  heaven,  in  azure  mirth, 

It  kiss'd  the  forehead  of  the  Earth ; 

And  smiled  upon  the  silent  sea ; 

And  bade  the  frozen  streams  be  free ; 

And  waked  to  music  all  their  fountains ; 

And  breathed  upon  the  frozen  mountains ; 

And  like  a  prophetess  of  May 

Strew'd  flowers  upon  the  barren  way, 

Making  the  wintry  world  appear 

Like  one  on  whom  thou  smilest,  dear. 

Away,  away,  from  men  and  towns, 

To  the  wild  wood  and  the  downs — 

To  the  silent  wilderness 

Where  the  soul  need  not  repress 

Its  music  lest  it  should  not  find 

An  echo  in  another's  mind, 

While  the  touch  of  Nature's  ait 

Harmonizes  heart  to  heart. 

I   leave  this  notice  on  my  door 

For  each  accustom'd  visitor: — 

699 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

'  I  am  gone  into  the  fields 
To  take  what  this  sweet  hour  yields. 
Reflection,  you  may  come  to-morrow; 
Sit  by  the  fireside  with  Sorrow. 
You  with  the  unpaid  bill,  Despair, — 
You  tiresome  verse-reciter,  Care, — 
I  will  pay  you  in  the  grave, — 
Death  will  listen  to  your  stave. 
Expectation  too,   be  off! 
To-day  is  for  itself  enough. 
Hope,  in  pity,  mock  not  Woe 
With  smiles,   nor  follow  where  I  go; 
Long  having  lived  on  your  sweet  food, 
At  length  I  find  one  moment's  good 
After  long  pain :    with  all  your  love, 
This  you  never  told  me  of.' 

Radiant  Sister  of  the  Day, 
Awake!    arise!    and  come  away! 
To  the  wild  woods  and  the  plains; 
And  the  pools  where  winter  rains 
Image  all  their  roof  of  leaves ; 
Where  the  pine  its  garland  weaves 
Of  sapless  green  and  ivy  dun 
Round  stems  that  never  kiss  the  sun ; 
Where  the  lawns  and  pastures  be, 
And  the  sandhills  of  the  sea ; 
When  the  melting  hoar-frost  wets 
The  daisy-star  that  never  sets, 
And  wind-flowers,  and  violets 
Which  yet  join  not  scent  to  hue, 
Crown  the  pale  year  weak  and  new ; 
When  the  night  is  left  behind 
700 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

In  the  deep  east,  dun  and  blind, 
And  the  blue  noon  is  over  us, 
And  the  multitudinous 
Billows  murmur  at  our  feet 
Where  the  earth  and  ocean  meet. 
And  all  things  seem  only  one 
In  the  universal  sun. 

607.  Hellas 

'"THE  world's  great  age  begins  anew. 

The  golden  years  return, 
The  earth  doth  like  a  snake  renew 

Her  winter  weeds  outworn : 
Heaven  smiles,  and  faiths  and  empires  gleam 
Like  wrecks  of  a  dissolving  dream. 

A  brighter  Hellas  rears  its  mountains 

From  waves  serener  far; 
A  new  Peneus  rolls  his  fountains 

Against  the  morning  star; 
Where  fairer  Tempes  bloom,  there  sleep 
Young  Cyclads  on  a  sunnier  deep. 

A  loftier  Argo  cleaves  the  main, 

Fraught  with  a  later  prize ; 
Another  Orpheus  sings  again, 

And  loves,  and  weeps,  and  dies ; 
A  new  Ulysses  leaves  once  more 
Calypso  for  his  native  shore. 

O  write  no  more  the  tale  of  Troy, 
If  earth  Death's  scroll  must  be — 

Nor  mix  with  Laian  rage  the  joy 
Which  dawns  upon  the  free, 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

Although  a  subtler  Sphinx  renew 
Riddles  of  death  Thebes  never  knew. 

Another  Athens  shall  arise, 

And  to  remoter  time 
Bequeath,  like  sunset  to  the  skies, 

The  splendour  of  its  prime ; 
And  leave,  if  naught  so  bright  may  live> 
All  earth  can  take  or  Heaven  can  give. 

Saturn  and  Love  their  long  repose 
Shall  burst,   more  bright  and  good 

Than  all  who  fell,   than  One  who  rose, 
Than  many  unsubdued : 

Not  gold,  not  blood,   their  altar  dowers, 

But  votive  tears  and  symbol  flowers. 

O  cease !    must  hate  and  death  return  ? 

Cease !    must  men  kill  and  die  ? 
Cease !    drain  not  to  its  dregs  the  urn 

Of  bitter  prophecy ! 
The  world  is  weary  of  the  past — 
O  might  it  die  or  rest  at  last ! 


608,  To  a  Skylark 

LJAIL  to  thee,  blithe  spirit! 
Bird  thou  never  wert — 
That  from  heaven  or  near  it 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest, 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,   and  soaring  ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  light'ning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  bright'ning, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run, 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven, 

In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight — 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflow'd. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see, 

As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody: — 

703 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not: 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower  : 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass  which  screen  it  from  the  view 

Like  a  rose  embower'd 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflower'd, 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged  thieves  ; 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awaken'd  flowers — 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous  and  clear  and  fresh — thy  music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine: 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 

That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 
704 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

Chorus  hymeneal, 

Or  triumphal  chant, 
Match'd  with  thine  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt — 
A   thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind  ?    what  ignorance  of  pain  ? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be: 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee: 
Thou  lovest,  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not: 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought. 

Yet,  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate  and  pride  and  fear, 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 

I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 
Aa 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground  ! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know  ; 
Such  harmonious  madness 

From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now. 


6op.  The  Moon 

i 

A  ND,  like  a  dying  lady  lean  and  pale, 
•**•     Who  totters  forth,  wrapp'd  in  a  gauzy  veil, 
Out  of  her  chamber,  led  by  the  insane 
And  feeble  wanderings  of  her  fading  brain, 
The  moon  arose  up  in  the  murky  east 
A  white  and  shapeless  mass. 


Art  thou  pale  for  weariness 
Of  climbing  heaven  and  gazing  on  the  earth, 

Wandering  companionless 
Among  the  stars  that  have  a  different  birth, 
And  ever  changing,  like  a  joyless  eye 
That  finds  no  object  worth  its  constancy? 


706 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 
610.  Ode  to  the  West  Wind 


S~\  WILD  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being 
^-^  Thou  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing, 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red, 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes  !     O  thou 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,   where  they  lie  cold  and  low, 

Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,   until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  Spring  shall  blow 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 

(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 

With  living  hues  and  odours  plain  and  hill ; 

Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere; 
Destroyer  and  preserver ;    hear,   O  hear ! 


Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep  sky's  commotion, 

Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are  shed, 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  heaven  and  ocean, 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning  !    there  are  spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 

Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  even  from  the  dim  verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height, 
The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.     Thou  dirge 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre, 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapours,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 

Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail,  will  burst:    O  hear 


Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer  dreams 

The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay, 
LulPd  by  the  coil  of  his  crystilline  streams, 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in   Baiae's  bay, 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss,  and  flowers 

So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them  !     Thou 
For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,   while  far  below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,   know 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with  fear, 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves :     O  hear  ! 


If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear; 

If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee; 
A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 

708 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  O   uncontrollable !    if  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven, 
As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skiey  speed 
Scarce  seem'd  a  vision — I   would  ne'er  have  striven 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
O  !    lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud  ! 
I   fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life  !    I  bleed  ! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chain'd  and  bow'd 
One  too  like  thee — tameless,  and  swift,  and  proud. 


Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is: 

What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own? 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep  autumnal  tone, 
Sweet  though  in  sadness.     Be  thou,   Spirit  fierce, 
My  spirit !     Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one ! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe, 

Like  wither'd  leaves,  to  quicken  a  new  birth  ; 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguish'd  hearth 

Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind ! 

Be  through  my  lips  to  unawaken'd  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy !     O  Wind, 
If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind  ? 

709 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


I 


d"//.  The  Indian  Serenade 

ARISE  from  dreams  of  thee 

In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low, 
And  the  stars  are  shining  bright. 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 

And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Hath  led  me — who  knows  how  ? 
To  thy  chamber  window,   Sweet ! 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 
On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream — 

And  the  Champak's  odours  [pine] 
Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream ; 

The  nightingale's  complaint, 
It  dies  upon  her  heart, 

As  I  must  on  thine, 

0  beloved  as  thou  art! 

O  lift  me  from  the  grass! 

1  die  !   I  faint !  I  fail ! 
Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 

On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 
My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas! 

My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast : 
O  press  it  to  thine  own  again, 

Where  it  will  break  at  last ! 

612.  Night 

C  WIFTLY  walk  over  the  western  wave, 

Spirit  of  Night ! 

Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave, — 
Where,  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight, 
710 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

Tbou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear, — 
Swift  be  thy  flight! 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  grey, 

Star-inwrought ! 

Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day; 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out. 
Then  wander  o'er  city  and  sea  and  land, 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand — 

Come,  long-sought ! 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sigh'd  for  thee ; 

When  light  rode  high,   and  the  dew  was  gone, 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  Day  turn'd  to  her  rest. 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 

I  sigh'd  for  thee. 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 

'  Wouldst  thou  me  ? ' 
Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 
Murmur'd  like  a  noontide  bee, 
'  Shall   I   nestle  near  thy  side  ? 
Wouldst  thou  me  ? ' — And  I  replied, 

'  No,   not  thee  !  ' 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  soon — 

Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled. 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 

Come  soon,  soon ! 

711 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 
61$.  From  the  Arabic 

AN    IMITATION 

A^  Y  faint  spirit  was  sitting  in  the  light 
*•**•          Of  thy  looks,  my  love; 

It  panted  for  thee  like  the  hind  at  noon 

For  the  brooks,  my  love. 
Thy  barb,  whose  hoofs  outspeed  the  tempest's  flight, 

Bore  thee  far  from  me ; 
My  heart,  for  my  weak  feet  were  weary  soon, 

Did  companion  thee. 
Ah !    fleeter  far  than  fleetest  storm  or  steed, 

Or  the  death  they  bear, 
The  heart  which  tender  thought  clothes  like  a  dove 

With  the  wings  of  care; 
In  the  battle,  in  the  darkness,  in  the  need, 

Shall  mine  cling  to  thee, 

Nor  claim  one  smile  for  all  the  comfort,  love, 
It  may  bring  to  thee. 

JLines 

the  lamp  is  shatter'd, 
The  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead ; 

When  the  cloud  is  scatter'd, 
The  rainbow's  glory  is  shed ; 

When  the  lute  is  broken, 
Sweet  tones  are  remember 'd  not; 

When  the  lips  have  spoken, 
Loved  accents  are  soon  forgot. 

As  music  and  splendour 
Survive  not  the  lamp  and  the  lute, 

The  heart's  echoes  render 
No  song  when  the  spirit  is  mute— 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

No  song  but  sad  dirges, 
Like  the  wind  through  a  ruin'd  cell, 

Or  the  mournful  surges 
That  ring  the  dead  seaman's  knell. 

When  hearts  have  once  mingled, 
Love  first  leaves  the  well-built  nest; 

The  weak  one  is  singled 
To  endure  what  it  once  possest. 

O   Love,  who  bewailest 
The  frailty  of  all  things  here, 

Why  choose  you  the  frailest 
For  your  cradle,  your  home,  and  your  bier:1 

Its  passions  wiH  rock  thee, 
As  the  storms  rock  the  ravens  on  high : 

Bright  reason  will  mock  thee, 
Like  the  sun  from  a  wintry  sky. 

From  thy  nest  every  rafter 
Will  rot,  and  thine  eagle  home 

Leave  thee  naked  to  laughter, 
When  leaves  fall  and  cold  winds  come. 


To  

ONE  word  is  too  often  profaned 
For  me  to  profane  it ; 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdain'd 

For  thee  to  disdain  it; 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 
For  prudence  to  smother; 
And  pity  from  thee  more  dear 
Than  that  from  another. 

Aaa  "3 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love: 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above 

And  the  heavens  reject  not, 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow  ? 


616.  The  Question 

T   DREAM'D  that,  as  I  wander'd  by  the  way, 

Bare  Winter  suddenly  was  changed  to  Spring; 
And  gentle  odours  led  my  steps  astray, 

Mix'd  with  a  sound  of  waters  murmuring 
Along  a  shelving  bank  of  turf,  which  lay 

Under  a  copse,  and  hardly  dared  to  fling 
Its  green  arms  round  the  bosom  of  the  stream, 
But  kiss'd  it  and  then  fled,  as  thou  mightest  in  dieam 

There  grew  pied  wind-flowers  and  violets; 

Daises,  those  pearl'd  Arcturi  of  the  earth, 
The  constellated  flower  that  never  sets; 

Faint  oxlips ;    tender  bluebells,  at  whose  birth 
The  sod  scarce  heaved ;  and  that  tall  flower  that  wets  — 

Like  a  child,  half  in  tenderness  and  mirth — 
Its  mother's  face  with  heaven-collected  tears 
When  the  low  wind,  its  playmate's  voice,  it  hears. 

And  in  the  warm  hedge  grew  lush  eglantine, 
Green  cowbind  and  the  moonlight-colour'd  May, 

And  cherry-blossoms,  and  white  cups  whose  wine 
Was  the  bright  dew  yet  drain'd  not  by  the  day; 
7»4 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

And  wild  roses,  and  ivy  serpentine, 

With  its  dark  buds  and  leaves  wandering  astray; 
And  flowers,  azure,  black,  and  streak'd  with  gold, 
Fairer  than  any  waken'd  eyes  behold. 

And  nearer  to  the  river's  trembling  edge 

There  grew  broad  flag-flowers,  purple  prank'd  with  white, 
And  starry  river-buds  among  the  sedge, 

And  floating  water-lilies,  broad  and  bright, 
Which  lit  the  oak  that  overhung  the  hedge 

With  moonlight  beams  of  their  own  watery  light ; 
And  bulrushes,  and  reeds  of  such  deep  green 
As  soothed  the  dazzled  eye  with  sober  sheen. 

Methought  that  of  these  visionary  flowers 
I  made  a  nosegay,  bound  in  such  a  way 

That  the  same  hues  which  in  their  natural  bowers 
Were  mingled  or  opposed,  the  like  array 

Kept  these  imprison'd  children  of  the  Hours 
Within  my  hand; — and  then,  elate  and  gay, 

I  hasten'd  to  the  spot  whence  I  had  come, 

That  I  might  there  present  it — O  !    to  whom  ? 

6 17.  Remorse 

A  WAY !    the  moor  is  dark  beneath  the  moon, 
•**     Rapid  clouds  have  drunk  the  last  pale  beam  of  even : 
Away  !   the  gathering  winds  will  call  the  darkness  soon, 
And    profoundest   midnight  shroud    the  serene    lights    of 

heaven. 
Pause  not!  the  time  is  past!      Every  voice  cries  'Away! ' 

Tempt  not  with  one  last  tear  thy  friend's  ungentle  mood ; 
Thy  lover's  eye,  so  glazed  and  cold,  dares  not  entreat  thy  stay ; 
Duty  and  dereliction  guide  thee  back  to  solitude. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

Away,  away !    to  thy  sad  and  silent  home ; 
Pour  bitter  tears  on  its  desolated  hearth; 
Watch  the  dim  shades  as  like  ghosts  they  go  and  come, 

And  complicate  strange  webs  of  melancholy  mirth. 
The    leaves    of  wasted    autumn    woods    shall    float    around 

thine  head, 
The    blooms   of  dewy  Spring    shall    gleam    beneath    thy 

feet: 
But  thy  soul    or   this  world   must    fade    in    the    frost   that 

binds  the  dead, 

Ere  midnight's  frown  and  morning's  smile,  ere  thou  and 
peace,  may  meet. 

The  cloud  shadows  of  midnight  possess  their  own  repose, 
For  the  weary  winds  are  silent,  or  the  moon  is    in  the 

deep; 

Some  respite  to  its  turbulence  unresting  ocean  knows; 
Whatever   moves   or  toils  or   grieves    hath  its  appointed 

sleep. 

Thou  in  the  grave  shall  rest : — yet,  till  the  phantoms  flee, 
Which  that   house  and  heath   and  garden   made  dear  to 

thee  erewhile, 
Thy  remembrance    and    repentance    and    deep    musings  are 

not  free 

From    the    music  of  two   voices,   and  the    light   of  one 
sweet  smile. 


M1 


618.     Music,  when  Soft  Voices  die 

USIC,  when  soft  voices  die, 

Vibrates  in  the  memory; 
Odours,  when  sweet  violets  sicken, 
Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken. 
716 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

Rose  leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead, 
Are  heap'd  for  the  beloved's  bed; 
And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  thou  art  gone. 
Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 


HEW  AINSLIE 
610.  ffillie  and  Helen 

HAREFORE  sou'd  ye  talk  o'  love, 


Unless  it  be  to  pain  us  ? 
Wharefore  sou'd  ye  talk  o*  love 

Whan  ye  say  the  sea  maun  twain  us  ?  ' 

*  It  's  no  because  my  love  is  light, 

Nor  for  your  angry  deddy  ; 
It's  a*  to  buy  ye  pearlins  bright, 

An'  to  busk  ye  like  a  leddy.  ' 

'  O  Willy,   I  can  caird  an'  spin, 
Se  ne'er  can  want  for  cleedin'  ; 

An'  gin  I  hae  my  Willy's  heart, 
I  hae  a*  the  pearls  I'm  heedin'. 

4  Will  it  be  time  to  praise  this  cheek 
Whan  years  an'  tears  has  blench'd  it  ? 

Will  it  be  time  to  talk  o'  love 

Whan  cauld  an'  care  has  quench'd  it  ?  ' 

He's  laid  ae  han'  about  her  waist  — 
The  ither's  held  to  heaven; 

An'  his  luik  was  like  the  luik  o'  man 
Wha's  heart  in  twa  is  riven. 

cleedin']  clothing. 


JOHN  KEBLE 
620.  Burial  of  the  1)eael 


1792-1866 

THOUGHT  to  meet  no  more,   so  dreary  seem'd 
Death's  interposing  veil,  and  thou  so  pure, 
Thy  place  in  Paradise 
Beyond  where  I  could  soar; 


Friend  of  this  worthless  heart !    but  happier  thoughts 
Spring  like  unbidden  violets  from  the  sod, 

Where  patiently  thou  tak'st 

Thy  sweet  and  sure  repose. 

The  shadows  fall  more  soothing:    the  soft  air 
Is  full  of  cheering  whispers  like  thine  own ; 

While  Memory,  by  thy  grave, 

Lives  o'er  thy  funeral  day ; 

The  deep  knell  dying  down,  the  mourners'  pause, 
Waiting  their  Saviour's  welcome  at  the  gate. — 

Sure  with  the  words  of  Heaven 

Thy  spirit  met  us  there, 

And  sought  with  us  along  th'  accustom'd  way 
The  hallow'd  porch,  and  entering  in,  beheld 

The  pageant  of  sad  joy 

So  dear  to  Faith  and  Hope. 

0  !    hadst  thou  brought  a  strain  from   Paradise 
To  cheer  us,  happy  soul,  thou  hadst  not  touch 'd 

The  sacred  springs  of  grief 

More  tenderly  and  true, 
7.8 


JOHN  KEBLE 

Than  those  deep-warbled  anthems,  high  and  low, 
Low  as  the  grave,  high  as  th'  Eternal  Throne, 
Guiding  through  light  and  gloom 
Our  mourning  fancies  wild, 

Till  gently,  like  soft  golden  clouds  at  eve 
Around  the  western  twilight,  all  subside 
Into  a  placid  faith, 
That  even  with  beaming  eye 

Counts  thy  sad  honours,  coffin,  bier,  and  pall; 
So  many  relics  of  a  frail  love  lost, 

So  many  tokens  dear 

Of  endless  love  begun. 

Listen  !    it  is  no  dream :    th'  Apostles'  trump 
Gives  earnest  of  th'  Archangel's; — calmly  now, 

Our  hearts  yet  beating  high 

To  that  victorious  lay 

(Most  like  a  warrior's,  to  the  martial  dirge 
Of  a  true  comrade),  in  the  grave  we  trust 

Our  treasure  for  awhile: 

And  if  a  tear  steal  down, 

If  human  anguish  o'er  the  shaded  brow 

Pass  shuddering,  when  the  handful  of  pure  earth 

Touches  the  coffin-lid; 

If  at  our  brother's  name, 

Once  and  again  the  thought,   '  for  ever  gone,' 
Come  o'er  us  like  a  cloud;    yet,  gentle  spright, 
Thou  turnest  not  away, 
Thou  know'st  us  calm  at  heart. 


JOHN  KEBLE 

One  look,  and  we  have  seen  our  last  of  thee, 
Till  we  too  sleep  and  our  long  sleep  be  o'er. 

O  cleanse  us,  ere  we  view 

That  countenance  pure  again, 

Thou,  who  canst  change  the  heart,  and  raise  the  dead  1 
As  Thou  art  by  to  soothe  our  parting  hour, 
Be  ready  when  we  meet, 
With  Thy  dear  pardoning  words. 

JOHN  CLARE 
621.   Written  in  Northampton  County 

Asylum  1793-1864 

T  AM !  yet  what  I  am  who  cares,  or  knows  ? 
•*•  My  friends  forsake  me  like  a  memory  lost. 
I  am  the  self-consumer  of  my  woes ; 

They  rise  and  vanish,  an  oblivious  host, 
Shadows  of  life,  whose  very  soul  is  lost. 
And  yet  I  am — I  live — though  I  am  toss'd 

Into  the  nothingness  of  scorn  and  noise, 
Into  the  living  sea  of  waking  dream, 

Where  there  is  neither  sense  of  life,  nor  joys, 
But  the  huge  shipwreck  of  my  own  esteem 

And  all  that's  dear.     Even  those  I  loved  the  best 

Are  strange — nay,  they  are  stranger  than  the  rest. 

I  long  for  scenes  where  man  has  never  trod — 
For  scenes  where  woman  never  smiled  or  wept — 

There  to  abide  with  my  Creator,   God, 

And  sleep  as  I  in  childhood   sweetly  slept, 

Full  of  high  thoughts,  unborn.     So  let  me  lie, — 

The  grass  below;    above,  the  vaulted  sky. 


FELICIA  DOROTHEA  REMANS 
622. 


•793-1835 

on  the  bosom  of  thy  God, 
^-^      Fair  spirit,   rest  thee  now  ! 
E'en  while  with  ours  thy  footsteps  trod, 
His  seal  was  on  thy  brow. 

Dust,  to  its   narrow  house  beneath  ! 

Soul,  to  its  place  on  high  ! 
They  that  have  seen  thy  look  in  death 

No  more  may  fear  to  die. 


JOHN  KEATS 
623.        Song  of  the  Indian  Maid 


O 


FROM  'ENDYMION' 

SORROW.' 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  natural  hue  of  health,   from  vermeil  lips  ? — 
To  give  maiden  blushes 
To  the  white  rose  bushes? 
Or  is  it  thy  dewy  hand  the  daisy  tips? 

O  Sorrow  ! 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  lustrous  passion  from  a  falcon-eye? — 

To  give  the  glow-worm  light? 

Or,  on  a  moonless  night, 
To  tinge,   on  siren  shores,  the  salt  sea- spry  ? 

6aj.  sea-spry]  sea-spray. 

7*' 


JOHN  KEATS 

O  Sorrow! 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  mellow  ditties  from  a  mourning  tongue? — 

To  give  at  evening  pale 

Unto  the  nightingale, 
That  thou  mayst  listen  the  cold  dews  among  ? 

0  Sorrow! 
Why  dost  borrow 

Heart's  lightness  from  the  merriment  of  May  ? — 

A  lover  would  not  tread 

A  cowslip  on  the  head, 
Though  he  should  dance  from  eve  till  peep  of  day- 

Nor  any  drooping  flower 

Held  sacred  for  thy  bower, 
Wherever  he  may  sport  himself  and  play. 

To  Sorrow 

1  bade  good  morrow, 

And  thought  to  leave  her  far  away  behind; 

But  cheerly,  cheerly, 

She  loves  me  dearly ; 
She  is  so  constant  to  me,  and  so  kind : 

I  would  deceive  her, 

And  so  leave  her, 
But  ah !    she  is  so  constant  and  so  kind. 

Beneath  my  palm-trees,  by  the  river  side, 
I  sat  a-weeping:    in  the  whole  world  wide 
There  was  no  one  to  ask  me  why  I  wept, — 

And  so  I  kept 
Brimming  the  water-lily  cups  with  tears 

Cold  as  my  fears. 
•jaa 


JOHN  KEATS 

Beneath  my  palm-trees,  by  the  river  side, 
I  sat  a-weeping :    what  enamour'd  bride, 
Cheated  by  shadowy  wooer  from  the  clouds, 

But  hides  and  shrouds 
Beneath  dark  palm-trees  by  a  river  side? 

And  as  I  sat,  over  the  light  blue  hills 
There  came  a  noise  of  revellers :    the  rills 
Into  the  wide  stream  came  of  purple  hue — 

'Twas  Bacchus  and  his  crew ! 
The  earnest  trumpet  spake,   and  silver  thrills 
From  kissing  cymbals  made  a  merry  din — 

'Twas  Bacchus  and  his  kin ! 
Like  to  a  moving  vintage  down  they  came, 
Crown'd  with  green  leaves,  and  faces  all  on  flame; 
All  madly  dancing  through  the  pleasant  valley, 

To  scare  thee,   Melancholy ! 
O  then,  O  then,  thou  wast  a  simple  name ! 
And  I  forgot  thee,   as  the  berried  holly 
By  shepherds  is  forgotten,  when  in  June 
Tall  chestnuts  keep  away  the  sun  and  moon  :— 

I  rush'd  into  the  folly ! 

Within  his  car,  aloft,  young  Bacchus  stood, 
Trifling  his  ivy-dart,  in  dancing  mood, 

With  sidelong  laughing  ; 
And  little  rills  of  crimson  wine  imbrued 
His  plump  white  arms  and  shoulders,  enough  white 

For  Venus'  pearly  bite; 
And  near  him  rode  Silenus  on  his  ass, 
Pelted  with  flowers  as  he  on  did   pass 

Tipsily  quaffing. 


JOHN  KEATS 

•  Whence  came  ye,  merry  Damsels !    whence  came  ye, 
So  many,  and  so  many,  and  such  glee? 
Why  have  ye  left  your  bowers  desolate, 

Your  lutes,  and  gentler  fate?' — 
'  We  follow  Bacchus !     Bacchus  on  the  wing, 

A-conquering ! 

Bacchus,  young  Bacchus !    good  or  ill  betide, 
We  dance  before  him  thorough  kingdoms  wide : — 
Come  hither,  lady  fair,  and  joined  be 

To  our  wild  minstrelsy  ! ' 

'  Whence  came  ye,  jolly  Satyrs !    whence  came  ye, 

So  many,  and  so  many,   and  such  glee  ? 

Why  have  ye  left  your  forest  haunts,   why  left 

Your  nuts  in  oak-tree  cleft  ? ' — 
'  For  wine,  for  wine  we  left  our  kernel  tree ; 
For  wine  we  left  our  heath,  and  yellow  brooms, 

And  cold  mushrooms; 

For  wine  we  follow  Bacchus  through  the  earth ; 
Great  god  of  breathless  cups  and  chirping  mirth ! 
Come  hither,  lady  fair,  and  joined  be 

To  our  mad  minstrelsy  !  ' 

Over  wide  streams  and  mountains  great  we  went, 
And,  save  when  Bacchus   kept  his  ivy  tent, 
Onward  the  tiger  and  the  leopard  pants, 

With  Asian  elephants : 

Onward  these  myriads — with  song  and  dance, 
With  zebras  striped,  and  sleek  Arabians'  prance, 
Web-footed  alligators,  crocodiles, 
Bearing  upon  their  scaly  backs,  in  files, 
Plump  infant  laughers  mimicking  the  coil 
Of  seamen,  and  stout  galley-rowers'  toil: 


JOHN  KEATS 

With  toying  oars  and  silken  sails  they  glide, 
Nor  care  for  wind  and  tide. 

Mounted  on  panthers'  furs  and  lions'  manes, 
From  rear  to  van  they  scour  about  the  plains ; 
A  three  days'  journey  in  a  moment  done ; 
And  always,  at  the  rising  of  the  sun, 
About  the  wilds  they  hunt  with  spear  and  horn, 
On  spleenful  unicorn. 

I  saw  Osirian  Egypt  kneel  adown 

Before  the  vine-wreath  crown ! 
I  saw  parch'd  Abyssinia  rouse  and  sing 

To  the  silver  cymbals'  ring ! 
I  saw  the  whelming  vintage  hotly  pierce 

Old  Tartary  the  fierce! 
The  kings  of  Ind  their  jewel-sceptres  vail, 
And  from  their  treasures  scatter  pearled  hail; 
Great  Brahma  from  his  mystic  heaven  groans, 

And  all  his  priesthood  moans, 
Before  young  Bacchus'  eye-wink  turning  pale. 
Into  these  regions  came  I,  following  him, 
Sick-hearted,  weary — so  I  took  a  whim 
To  stray  away  into  these  forests  drear, 

Alone,  without  a  peer : 
And  I  have  told  thee  all  thou  mayest  hear. 

Young  Stranger ! 

I've  been  a  ranger 
In  search  of  pleasure  throughout  every  clime; 

Alas !    'tis  not  for  me ! 

Bewitch 'd  I  sure  must  be, 
To  lose  in  grieving  all  my  maiden  prime. 


JOHN  KEATS 

Come  then,  Sorrow, 

Sweetest  Sorrow ! 
Like  an  own  babe  I  nurse  thee  on  my  breast: 

I  thought  to  leave  thee, 

And  deceive  thee, 
But  now  of  all  the  world  I  love  thee  best. 


There  is  not  one, 

No,  no,  not  one 
But  thee  to  comfort  a  poor  lonely  maid ; 

Thou  art  her  mother, 

And  her  brother, 
Her  playmate,  and  her  wooer  in  the  shade. 


624.  Ode    to  a,  Nightingale 

AA  Y  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 

•*•          My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk. 

Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and   Lethe- wards  had  sunk : 
Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 
But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness, 

That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 

In   some  melodious  plot 

Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 

S ingest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

O  for  a  draught  of  vintage  !    that  hath  been 
Cool'd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 

Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country-green, 

Dance,  and  Prove^al  song,  and  sunburnt  mirth ! 
T* 


JOHN  KEATS 

O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South  1 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 

And  purple-stained  mouth; 

That  I   might  drink,   and  leave  the  world  unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim: 


Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known, 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,   sad,  last  grey  hairs, 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and  dies; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 

And  leaden-eyed  despairs ; 
Where  beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 
Or  new   Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 


Away  !    away !    for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards: 
Already  with  thee!    tender  is  the  night, 

And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Cluster'd  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays; 

But  here  there  is  no  light, 

Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy   ways. 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 


JOHN  KEATS 

But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,   and  the  fruit-tree  wild ; 
White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine ; 
Fast-fading  violets  cover'd  up  in  leaves; 

And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves. 

Darkling  I  listen;    and  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Call'd  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 

In  such  an  ecstasy ! 

Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears   in  vain — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird ! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown: 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,   sick  for  home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn; 

The  same  that  ofttimes  hath 
Charm'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 

Forlorn !    the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self! 
728 


JOHN  KEATS 

Adieu !    the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 

As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu  !    adieu !    thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hill-side;    and  now  'tis  buried  deep 

In  the  next  valley-glades : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream  ? 

Fled  is  that  music : — do  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 


62$.  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn 

'  I  'HOU  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness, 
•*•      Thou  foster-child  of  Silence  and  slow  Time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme : 
What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 
Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 

In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady  ? 
What  men  or  gods  are  these  ?    What  maidens  loth  ? 
What  mad  pursuit  ?    What  struggle  to  escape  ? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels  ?     What  wild  ecstasy  ? 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,   but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter ;    therefore,   ye  soft  pipes,  play  on ; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,   more  endear'd, 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone: 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal — yet,   do  not  grieve ; 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 

For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair ! 


JOHN  KEATS 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs  !    that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu ; 
And,  happy  melodist,   unwearied, 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new ; 
More  happy  love !    more  happy,  happy  love ! 

For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoy'd, 

For  ever  panting  and  for  ever  young ; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 

That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and  cloy'd, 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  ? 

To  what  green  altar,   O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest  ? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea-shore, 

Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 

Is  emptied  of  its  folk,  this  pious  morn  ? 
And,  little  town,   thy  streets  for  evermore 

Will  silent  be;    and  not  a  soul,  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,   can  e'er  return. 

O  Attic  shape !    fair  attitude  !    with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed; 

Thou,  silent  form  !    dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  eternity.     Cold  Pastoral ! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 
Thou  shah  remain,   in  midst  of  other  woe 

Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 
'  Beauty  is  truth,   truth  beauty, — that  is  all 

Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know.' 

730 


JOHN  KEATS 
626.  Ode  to  Psyche 

f~\   GODDESS  !    hear  these  tuneless  numbers,   wrung 
^-^      By  sweet  enforcement  and  remembrance  dear, 
And  pardon  that  thy  secrets  should  be  sung 

Even  into  thine  own  soft-conched  ear: 
Surely  I  dream'd  to-day,   or  did  I   see 

The  winged  Psyche  with  awaken'd  eyes? 
I  wander'd  in  a  forest  thoughtlessly, 

And,  on  the  sudden,   fainting  with  surprise, 
Saw  two  fair  creatures,  couched  side  by  side 

In  deepest  grass,  beneath  the  whisp'ring  roof 

Of  leaves  and  trembled  blossoms,   where  there  ran 

A  brooklet,   scarce  espied : 
'Mid  hush'd,   cool-rooted  flowers  fragrant-eyed, 

Blue,   silver-white,   and  budded  Tyrian, 
They  lay  calm-breathing  on  the  bedded  grass ; 

Their  arms  embraced,  and  their  pinions  too ; 

Their  lips  touch'd  not,  but  had  not  bade  adieu, 
As  if  disjoined  by  soft-handed  slumber, 
And  ready  still  past  kisses  to  outnumber 

At  tender  eye-dawn  of  aurorean  love : 
The  winged  boy  I  knew; 

But  who  wast  thou,   O  happy,  happy  dove? 
His  Psyche  true ! 

O  latest-born  and  loveliest  vision  far 
Of  all  Olympus'  faded  hierarchy  ! 
Fairer  than  Phoebe's  sapphire-region'd  star, 

Or  Vesper,  amorous  glow-worm  of  the  sky  ; 
Fairer  than  these,  though  temple  thou  hast  none, 

Nor  altar  heap'd  with  flowers; 
Nor  Virgin-choir  to  make  delicious  moan 
Upon  the  midnight  hours; 


JOHN  KEATS 

No  voice,  no  lute,  no  pipe,  no  incense  sweet 

From  chain-swung  censer  teeming ; 
No  shrine,  no  grove,  no  oracle,  no  heat 

Of  pale-mouth'd  prophet  dreaming. 

0  brightest !    though  too  late  for  antique  vows, 
Too,  too  late  for  the  fond  believing  lyre, 

When  holy  were  the  haunted  forest  boughs, 

Holy  the  air,  the  water,  and  the  fire ; 
Yet  even  in  these  days  so  far  retired 

From  happy  pieties,  thy  lucent  fans, 

Fluttering  among  the  faint  Olympians, 

1  see,  and  sing,  by  my  own  eyes  inspired. 
So  let  me  be  thy  choir,  and  make  a  moan 

Upon  the  midnight  hours ; 
Thy  voice,  thy  lute,   thy  pipe,   thy  incense  sweet 

From  swinged  censer  teeming: 
Thy  shrine,  thy  grove,  thy  oracle,  thy  heat 

Of  pale-mouth'd  prophet  dreaming. 

Yes,  I  will  be  thy  priest,  and  build  a  fane 

In  some  untrodden  region  of  my  mind, 
Where  branched  thoughts,  new  grown  with  pleasant  pain, 

Instead  of  pines  shall  murmur  in  the  wind : 
Far,  far  around  shall  those  dark-cluster'd  trees 

Fledge  the  wild-ridged  mountains  steep  by  steep ; 
And  there  by  zephyrs,  streams,  and  birds,  and  bees, 

The  moss-lain  Dryads  shall  be  lull'd  to  sleep; 
And  in  the  midst  of  this  wide  quietness 
A  rosy  sanctuary  will  I  dress 
With  the  wreath'd  trellis  of  a  working  brain, 

With  buds,  and  bells,   and  stars  without  a  name, 
With  all  the  gardener  Fancy  e'er  could  feign, 

Who,  breeding  flowers,  will  never  breed  the  same  ; 


JOHN  KEATS 

And  there  shall  be  for  thee  all  soft  delight 
That  shadowy  thought  can  win, 

A  bright  torch,  and  a  casement  ope  at  night, 
To  let  the  warm  Love  in  ! 


627.  To  Autumn 

CEASON  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness ! 
Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun ; 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eaves  run ; 
To  bend  with  apples  the  moss'd  cottage-trees, 

And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core; 

To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel  shells 

With  a  sweet  kernel;    to  set  budding  more, 
And  still  more,   later  flowers  for  the  bees, 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease, 

For  Summer  has  o'er-brimm'd  their  clammy  cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store? 

Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind ; 
Or  on  a  half-reap'd  furrow  sound  asleep, 

Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers; 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 

Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook; 

Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 

Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings  hours  by  hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring?     Ay,  where  are  they? 
Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too, — 

MJ 


JOHN  KEATS 

While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day, 
And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue ; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 
Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies; 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn; 
Hedge-crickets  sing ;    and  now  with  treble  soft 
The  redbreast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft; 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 


N 


628.  Ode  on  Melancholy 

O,  no !    go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist 

Wolf's-bane,  tight-rooted,  for  its  poisonous  wine ; 
Nor  suffer  thy  pale  forehead  to  be  kist 

By  nightshade,  ruby  grape  of  Proserpine; 
Make  not  your  rosary  of  yew-berries, 

Nor  let  the  beetle,  nor  the  death-moth  be 

Your  mournful  Psyche,   nor  the  downy  owl 
A  partner  in  your  sorrow's  mysteries; 

For  shade  to  shade  will  come  too  drowsily, 
And  drown  the  wakeful  anguish  of  the  soul. 

But  when  the  melancholy  fit  shall  fall 

Sudden  from  heaven  like  a  weeping  cloud, 
That  fosters  the  droop-headed  flowers  all, 

And  hides  the  green  hill  in  an  April  shroud; 
Then  glut  thy  sorrow  on  a  morning  rose, 

Or  on  the  rainbow  of  the  salt  sand-wave, 

Or  on  the  wealth  of  globed  peonies; 
Or  if  thy  mistress  some  rich  anger  shows, 

Emprison  her  soft  hand,  and  let  her  rave, 
And  feed  deep,  deep  upon  her  peerless  eyes. 


JOHN  KEATS 

She  dwells  with   Beauty— Beauty  that  must  die; 

And  Joy,  whose  hand  is  ever  at  his  lips 
Bidding  adieu;    and  aching  Pleasure  nigh, 

Turning  to  poison  while  the  bee-mouth  sips : 
Ay,  in  the  very  temple  of  Delight 

Veil'd  Melancholy  has  her  sovran  shrine, 

Though  seen  of  none  save  him  whose  strenuous  tongue 
Can  burst  Joy's  grape  against  his  palate  fine; 

His  soul  shall  taste  the  sadness  of  her  might, 
And  be  among  her  cloudy  trophies  hung. 


6 29.     Fragment  of  an  Ode  to  Maia, 

(Written  on   May-Day,   1818} 

MOTHER  of  Hermes!    and  still  youthful  Maia ! 
May  I   sing  to  thee 
As  thou  wast  hymned  on  the  shores  of  Baias  ? 

Or  may  I  woo  thee 
In  earlier  Sicilian?    or  thy  smiles 
Seek  as  they  once  were  sought,    in  Grecian  isles, 
By  bards  who  died  content  on  pleasant  sward, 

Leaving  great  verse  unto  a  little  clan  ? 
O  give  me  their  old  vigour  !    and  unheard 
Save  of  the  quiet  primrose,   and  the  span 

Of  heaven,   and  few  ears, 
Rounded  by  thee,   my  song  should  die  away 

Content  as  theirs, 
Rich  in  the  simple  worship  of  a  day. 


735 


JOHN  KEATS 
<fjo.   Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth 

Written  on  the  Blank   Page  before  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's 
Trag'i-Comedy   '  The  Fair  Maid  of  the  Inn ' 

BARDS  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth! 
Have  ye  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  new? 
Yes,  and  those  of  heaven  commune 
With  the  spheres  of  sun  and  moon ; 
With  the  noise  of  fountains  wondrous, 
And  the  parle  of  voices  thund'rous; 
With  the  whisper  of  heaven's  trees 
And  one  another,  in  soft  ease 
Seated  on  Elysian  lawns 
Browsed  by  none  but  Dian's  fawns ; 
Underneath  large  blue-bells  tented, 
Where  the  daisies  are  rose-scented, 
And  the  rose  herself  has  got 
Perfume  which  on  earth  is  not ; 
Where  the  nightingale  doth  sing 
Not  a  senseless,  tranced  thing, 
But  divine  melodious  truth ; 
Philosophic  numbers  smooth; 
Tales  and  golden  histories 
Of  heaven  and  its  mysteries. 

Thus  ye  live  on  high,  and  then 
On  the  earth  ye  live  again ; 
And  the  souls  ye  left  behind  you 
Teach  us,  here,  the  way  to  find  you. 
Where  your  other  souls  are  joying, 
Never  slumber'd,  never  cloying. 
736 


JOHN  KEATS 

Here,   your  earth-born  souls  still  speak 
To  mortals,  of  their  little  week ; 
Of  their  sorrows  and  delights ; 
Of  their  passions  and  their  spites; 
Of  their  glory  and  their  shame; 
What  doth  strengthen  and  what  maim. 
Thus  ye  teach  us,  every  day, 
Wisdom,  though  fled  far  away. 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth ! 
Ye  have  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  new! 

Fancy 

CVER  let  the  Fancy  roam, 

•*-'      Pleasure  never  is  at  home: 

At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth, 

Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth  ; 

Then  let  winged  Fancy  wander 

Through  the  thought  still  spread  beyond  her 

Open  wide  the  mind's  cage-door, 

She'll  dart  forth,   and  cloudward  soar. 

O  sweet  Fancy !    let  her  loose ; 

Summer's  joys  are  spoilt  by  use, 

And  the  enjoying  of  the  Spring 

Fades  as  does  its  blossoming : 

Autumn's  red-lipp'd  fruitage  too, 

Blushing  through  the  mist  and  dew, 

Cloys  with  tasting :    What  do  then  ? 

Sit  thee  by  the  ingle,  when 

The  sear  faggot  blazes  bright, 

Bb  737 


JOHN  KEATS 

Spirit  of  a  winter's  night; 
When  the  soundless  earth  is  muffled, 
And  the  caked  snow  is  shuffled 
From  the  ploughboy's  heavy  shoon ; 
When  the  Night  doth  meet  the  Noon 
In  a  dark  conspiracy 
To  banish  Even  from  her  sky. 
Sit  thee  there,  and  send  abroad, 
With  a  mind  self-overawed, 
Fancy,   high-commission'd  : — send  her  ! 
She  has  vassals  to  attend  her : 
She  will  bring,  in  spite  of  frost, 
Beauties  that  the  earth  hath  lost; 
She  will  bring  thee,   all  together, 
All  delights  of  summer  weather; 
All  the  buds  and  bells  of  May, 
From  dewy  sward  or  thorny  spray ; 
All  the  heaped  Autumn's  wealth, 
With  a  still,   mysterious  stealth : 
She  will  mix  these  pleasures  up 
Like  three  fit  wines  in  a  cup, 
And  thou  shalt  quaff  it: — thou  shalt  hear 
Distant  harvest-carols  clear; 
Rustle  of  the  reaped  corn ; 
Sweet  birds  antheming  the  morn : 
And,  in  the  same  moment — hark ! 
'Tis  the  early  April  lark, 
Or  the  rooks,  with  busy  caw. 
Foraging  for  sticks  and  straw. 
Thou  shalt,  at  one  glance,  behold 
The  daisy  and  the  marigold; 
White-plumed  lilies,  and  the  first 
Hedge-grown  primrose  that  hath  burst ; 
738 


JOHN  KEATS 

Shaded  hyacinth,  alway 
Sapphire  queen  of  the  mid-May; 
And  every  leaf,  and  every  flower 
Pearled  with  the  self-same  shower. 
Thou  shall  see  the  fieldmouse  peep 
Meagre  from  its  celled  sleep; 
And  the  snake  all  winter-thin 
Cast  on  sunny  bank  its  skin; 
Freckled  nest-eggs  thou  shalt  see 
Hatching  in  the  hawthorn-tree, 
When  the  hen-bird's  wing  doth  rest 
Quiet  on  her  mossy  nest ; 
Then  the  hurry  and  alarm 
When  the  beehive  casts  its  swarm ; 
Acorns  ripe  down-pattering 
While  the  autumn  breezes  sing. 

O   sweet   Fancy  !    let  her  loose ; 
Every  thing  is  spoilt  by  use : 
Where's  the  cheek  that  doth  not  fade, 
Too  much  gazed  at  ?     Where 's  the  maid 
Whose  lip  mature  is  ever  new? 
Where's  the  eye,  however  blue, 
Doth  not  weary  ?    Where 's  the  face 
One  would  meet  in  every  place? 
Where's  the  voice,  however  soft, 
One  would  hear  so  very  oft? 
At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth 
Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth. 
Let,  then,  winged  Fancy  find 
Thee  a  mistress  to  thy  mind : 
Dulcet-eyed  as  Ceres'  daughter, 
Ere  the  God  of  Torment  taught  her 

739 


JOHN  KEATS 

How  to  frown  and  how  to  chide ; 

With  a  waist  and  with  a  side 

White  as  Hebe's,  when  her  zone 

Slipt  its  golden  clasp,   and  down 

Fell  her  kirtle  to  her  feet, 

While  she  held  the  goblet  sweet, 

And  Jove  grew  languid. — Break  the  mesh 

Of  the  Fancy's  silken  leash ; 

Quickly  break  her  prison-string, 

And  such  joys  as  these  she'll  bring. — 

Let  the  winged  Fancy  roam, 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home. 


6 $2.  Stanzas 

TN  a  drear-nighted  December, 

Too  happy,   happy  tree, 
Thy  branches  ne'er  remember 

Their  green  felicity  : 
The  north  cannot  undo  them, 
With  a  sleety  whistle  through  them  ; 
Nor  frozen  thawings  glue  them 

From  budding  at  the  prime. 

In  a  drear-nighted  December, 
Too  happy,  happy  brook, 

Thy  bubblings  ne'er  remember 
Apollo's  summer  look ; 

But  with  a  sweet  forgetting, 

They  stay  their  crystal  fretting, 

Never,  never  petting 
About  the  frozen  time. 


JOHN  KEATS 

Ah  !    would  'twere  so  with  many 

A  gentle  girl  and  boy  ! 
But  were  there  ever  any 

Writhed  not  at  passed  joy? 
To  know  the  change  and  feel  it, 
When  there  is  none  to  heal  it, 
Nor  numbed  sense  to  steal  it, 
Was  never  said  in  rhyme. 

6$$.     La  Belle  T)ame  sans  Merci 


can  ail  thee»   knight-at-arms, 
^•^      Alone  and  palely  loitering  ? 
The  sedge  is  wither'd  from  the  lake, 
And  no  birds  sing. 

'  O  what  can  ail  thee,   knight-at-arms, 

So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone  ? 
The  squirrel's  granary  is  full, 

And  the  harvest  's  done. 

'  I  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever  dew  ; 
And  on  thy  cheek  a  fading  rose 
Fast  withereth  too.' 

'I  met  a  lady  in  the  meads, 

Full  beautiful  —  a  faery's  child, 
Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light, 
And  her  eyes  were  wild. 

'  I  made  a  garland  for  her  head, 

And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone; 
She  look'd  at  me  as  she  did  love, 
And  made  sweet  moan. 


JOHN  KEATS 

'I   set  her  on  my  pacing  steed 

And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long, 
For  sideways  would  she  lean,   and  sing 
A  faery's  song. 

'  She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet, 

And  honey  wild  and  manna  dew, 
And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said, 
"  I   love  thee  true  !  " 

*  She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot, 

And  there  she  wept  and  sigh'd  full  sore; 
And  there  I  shut  her  wild,   wild  eyes 
With  kisses  four. 

'  And  there  she  lulled  me  asleep, 

And  there  I  dream'd — Ah  !    woe  betide .' 
The  latest  dream  I  ever  dream'd 
On  the  cold  hill's  side. 

'  I  saw  pale  kings  and  princes  too, 

Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all; 
Who  cried — "  La  belle  Dame  sans  Merci 
Hath  thee  in  thrall !  " 

'  I  saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloam 

With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide, 
And  I  awoke  and  found  me  here 
On  the  cold  hill's  side. 

'And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here 

Alone  and  palely  loitering, 
Though  the  sedge  is  withcr'd  from  the  lake, 
And  no  birds  sing.' 

74* 


JOHN  KEATS 
.    On  first  looking  into  Chapman's  Hornet 

\J\  UCH  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold, 

And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen ; 

Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 

That  deep-brow'd  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne- : 

Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold : 
Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 

When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken  ; 
Or  like  stout  Coitez,  when  with  eagle  eyes 

He  stared  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 
Look'd  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise — 

Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 

3 ?•  When  I  have  Fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be 

YW"HEN  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be 

™        Before  my  pen  has  glean'd  my  teeming  brain, 
Before  high-piled  books,  in  charact'ry, 
Hold  like  full  garners  the  full-ripen'd  grain; 
When  I  behold,  upon  the  night's  starr'd  face, 
Huge  cloudy  symbols  of  a  high  romance, 
And  feel  that  I  may  never  live  to  trace 
Their  shadows,  with  the  magic  hand  of  chance; 
And  when  I  feel,  fair  creature  of  an  hour! 
That  I  shall  never  look  upon  thee  more, 
Never  have  relish  in  the  faery  power 
Of  unreflecting  love ; — then  on  the  shore 

Of  the  wide  world  I  stand  alone,  and  think, 
Till  Love  and  Fame  to  nothingness  do  sink. 

743 


JOHN  KEATS 

6 '36.  To  Sleep 

f~\   SOFT  embalmer  of  the  still  midnight! 
^-^      Shutting  with  careful  fingers  and  benign 
Our  gloom-pleased  eyes,  embower'd  from  the  light, 

Enshaded  in  forgetfulness  divine  ; 
O  soothest  Sleep  !    if  so  it  please  thee,   close, 

In  midst  of  this  thine  hymn,  my  willing  eyes, 
Or  wait  the  amen,  ere  thy  poppy  throws 

Around  my  bed  its  lulling  charities  ; 

Then  save  me,  or  the  passed  day  will  shine 
Upon  my  pillow,  breeding  many  woes; 
Save  me  from  curious  conscience,  that  still  lords 

Its  strength  for  darkness,  burrowing  like  a  mole; 
Turn  the  key  deftly  in  the  oiled  wards, 

And  seal  the  hushed  casket  of  my  soul. 

6 $7.  Last  Sonnet 

ID  RIGHT  Star,  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art— 

•*~*      Not  in  lone  splendour  hung  aloft  the  night, 

And  watching,   with  eternal  lids  apart, 

Like  Nature's  patient  sleepless  Eremite, 

The  moving  waters  at  their  priest-like  task 

Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's  human  shores, 

Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft-fallen  mask 

Of  snow  upon  the  mountains  and  the  moors — 

No — yet  still  steadfast,   still  unchangeable, 

Pillow'd  upon  my  fair  love's  ripening  breast, 

To  feel  for  ever  its  soft  fall  and  swell, 

Awake  for  ever  in  a  sweet  unrest, 

Still,  still  to  hear  her  tender-taken  breath, 
And  so  live  ever — or  else  swoon  to  death. 


JEREMIAH  JOSEPH  CALLANAN 
W.       The  Outlaw  of  Loch  Lene 

FROM    THE    IRISH 

Q   MANY  a  day  have  I  made  good  ale  in  thTglen' 

That  came  not  of  stream  or  malt,  like  the  brewing 
of  men  : 

My  bed  was  the  ground;    my  roof,  the  green-wood  above; 
And  the  wealth   that  1   sought,    one  far  kind  glance  from 
my  Love. 

Alas  !   on  that  night  when  the  horses  I  drove  from  the  field 
Inat  1  Was  not  near  from  terror  my  angel  to  shield! 
She    stretch'd    forth    her    arms;     her    mantle   she  flung    to 

the  wind, 
And  swam  o'er  Loch  Lene,  her  outlaw'd  lover  to  find. 

O  would  that  a  freezing  sleet-wing'd  tempest  did  sweep, 
And  I  and  my  love  were  alone,  far  off  on  the  deep- 
Id  ask  not  a  ship,  or  a  bark,  or  a  pinnace,  to  save- 
ith  her  hand  round  my  waist,  I'd  fear  not  the  wind   or 


wave. 


T»  down  by  the  lake  where  the  wild  tree  fringes  its  sides, 
The  maid  of  my  heart,  my  fair  one  of  Heaven  resides: 
I  think,  as  at  eve  she  wanders  its  mazes  among, 
he  birds  go  to  sleep  by  the  sweet  wild  twist  of  her  song 


B  b  3  745 


WILLIAM  SIDNEY  WALKER 
659.  1795- '846 

TOO  solemn  for  day,  too  sweet  for  night, 
Come  not  in  darkness,  come  not  in  light; 
But  come  in  some  twilight  interim, 

When  the  gloom  is  soft,  and  the  light  is  dim. 


GEORGE  BARLEY 


SWEET  in  her  green  dell  the  flower  of  beauty  slumbers, 
Lull'd  by  the  faint  breezes  sighing  through  her  hair  ; 
Sleeps  she  and  hears  not  the  melancholy  numbers 
Breathed  to  my  sad  lute  'mid  the  lonely  air. 

Down  from  the  high  cliffs  the  rivulet  is  teeming 

To  wind  round  the  willow  banks  that  lure  him  from  above  : 

O  that  in  tears,  from  my  rocky  prison  streaming, 
I  too  could  glide  to  the  bower  of  my  love  ! 

Ah  !  where  the  woodbines  with  sleepy  arms  have  wound  her, 
Opes  she  her  eyelids  at  the  dream  of  my  lay, 

Listening,  like  the  dove,  while  the  fountains  echo  round  her, 
To  her  lost  mate's  call  in  the  forests  far  away. 

Come  then,  my  bird!     For  the  peace  thou  ever  bearest, 
Still  Heaven's  messenger  of  comfort  to  me— 

Come-  this  fond  bosom,   O  faithfullest  and  fairest, 

Bleeds  with  its  death-wound,  its  wound  of  love  for  thee  I 
7*6 


GEORGE  DARLEY 


r.  To  Helene 

On  a   Gift-ring  carelessly  lost 

T    SENT  a  ring— a  little  band 
•*•      Of  emerald  and  ruby  stone, 
And  bade  it,  sparkling  on  thy  hand, 
Tell  thee  sweet  tales  of  one 
Whose  constant  memory 
Was  full  of  loveliness,   and  thee. 

A  shell  was  graven  on  its  gold, — 

'Twas  Cupid  fix'd  without  his  wings — 
To  Helene  once  it  would  have  told 
More  than  was  ever  told  by  rings : 
But  now  all 's  past  and  gone, 
Her  love  is  buried  with  that  stone. 

Thou  shall  not  see  the  tears  that  start 

From  eyes  by  thoughts  like  these  beguiled: 
Thou  shall  not  know  the  beating  heart, 
Ever  a  victim  and  a  child : 
Yet  Helene,  love,  believe 
The  heart  that  never  could  deceive. 

I'll  hear  thy  voice  of  melody 

In  the  sweet  whispers  of  the  air; 
I'll  see  the  brightness  of  thine  eye 
In  the  blue  evening's  dewy  star; 
In  crystal  streams  thy  purity; 
And  look  on  Heaven  to  look  on  thee. 


747 


GEORGE  DARLEY 
642.  The  Fallen  Star 

A  STAR  is  gone!    a  star  is  gone! 
There  is  a  blank  in  Heaven; 
One  of  the  cherub  choir  has  done 
His  airy  course  this  even. 

He  sat  upon  the  orb  of  fire 

That  hung  for  ages  there, 
And  lent  his  music  to  the  choir 

That  haunts  the  nightly  air. 

But  when  his  thousand  years  are  pass'd, 

With  a  cherubic  sigh 
He  vanish'd  with  his  car  at  last, 

For  even  cherubs  die ! 

Hear  how  his  angel -brothers  mourn — 
The  minstrels  of  the  spheres — 

Each  chiming  sadly  in  his  turn 
And  dropping  splendid  tears. 

The  planetary  sisters  all 

Join  in  the  fatal  song, 
And  weep  this  hapless  brother's  fall, 

Who  sang  with  them  so  long. 

But  deepest  of  the  choral  band 

The  Lunar  Spirit  sings, 
And  with  a  bass-according  hand 

Sweeps  all  her  sullen  strings. 

From  the  deep  chambers  of  the  dome 
Where  sleepless  Uriel  lies, 

His  rude  harmonic  thunders  come 

Mingled  with  mighty  sighs. 
748 


GEORGE  DARLEY 

The  thousand  car-borne  cherubim, 

The  wandering  eleven, 
All  join  to  chant  the  dirge  of  him 

Who  fell  just  now  from   Heaven. 


HARTLEY  COLERIDGE 

64$.  The  Solitary-Hearted 

1796-1849 

OHE  was  a  queen  of  noble  Nature's  crowning, 
^     A  smile  of  hers  was  like  an  act  of  grace ; 
She  had  no  winsome  looks,  no  pretty  frowning, 
Like  daily  beauties  of  the  vulgar  race: 
But  if  she  smiled,  a  light  was  on  her  face, 
A  clear,   cool  kindliness,  a  lunar  beam 
Of  peaceful  radiance,   silvering  o'er  the  stream 
Of  human  thought  with  unabiding  glory; 
Not  quite  a  waking  truth,   not  quite  a  dream, 
A  visitation,  bright  and  transitory. 

But  she  is  changed, — hath  felt  the  touch  of  sorrow, 

No  love  hath  she,   no  understanding  friend; 

O  grief!    when  Heaven  is  forced  of  earth  to  borrow 

What  the  poor  niggard  earth  has  not  to  lend ; 

But  when  the  stalk  is  snapt,  the  rose  must  bend. 

The  tallest  flower  that  skyward  rears  its  head 

Grows  from  the  common  ground,  and  there  must  shed 

Its  delicate  petals.     Cruel  fate,   too  surely, 

That  they  should  find  so  base  a  bridal  bed, 

Who  lived  in  virgin  pride,   so  sweet  and  purely. 

She  had  a  brother,  and  a  tender  father, 
And  she  was  loved,  but  not  as  others  are 

749 


HARTLEY  COLERIDGE 

From  whom  we  ask  return  of  love, — but  rather 
As  one  might  love  a  dream ;    a  phantom  fair 
Of  something  exquisitely  strange  and  rare, 
Which  all  were  glad  to  look  on,  men  and  maids, 
Yet  no  one  claim'd — as  oft,  in  dewy  glades, 
The  peering  primrose,   like  a  sudden  gladness, 
Gleams  on  the  soul,  yet  unregarded  fades; — 
The  joy  is  ours,  but  all  its  own  the  sadness. 

'Tis  vain  to  say— her  worst  of  grief  is  only 
The  common  lot,  which  all  the  world  have  known ; 
To  her  'tis  more,  because  her  heart  is  lonely, 
And  yet  she  hath  no  strength  to  stand  alone, — 
Once  she  had  playmates,   fancies  of  her  own, 
And  she  did  love  them.     They  are  past  away 
As  Fairies  vanish  at  the  break  of  day ; 
And  like  a  spectre  of  an  age  departed, 
Or  unsphered  Angel  wofully  astray, 
She  glides  along — the  solitary-hearted. 

:44-  Song 

CHE  is  not  fair  to  outward  view 
^     As  many  maidens  be, 
Her  loveliness  I  never  knew 
Until  she  smiled  on  me; 
O,  then  I  saw  her  eye  was  bright, 
A  well  of  love,  a  spring  of  light ! 

But  now  her  looks  are  coy  and  cold. 
To  mine  they  ne'er  reply, 
And  yet  I  cease  not  to  behold 

The  love-light  in  her  eye : 
Her  very  frowns  are  fairer  far 
Than  smiles  of  other  maidens  are. 


HARTLEY  COLERIDGE 


Earfy  "Death 

CHE  pass'd  away  like  morning  dew 
^      Before  the  sun  was  high; 
So  brief  her  time,   she  scarcely  knew 
The  meaning  of  a  sigh. 

As  round  the  rose  its  soft  perfume, 
Sweet  love  around  her  floated; 

Admired  she  grew — while  mortal  doom 
Crept  on,  unfear'd,  unnoted. 

Love  was  her  guardian  Angel  here, 
But  Love  to  Death  resign'd  her ; 

Tho'  Love  was  kind,  why  should  we  fear 
But  holy  Death  is  kinder? 


646.  Friendship 

YW'HEN  we  were  idlers  with  the  loitering  rills, 
**        The  need  of  human  love  we  little  noted : 

Our  love  was  nature ;    and  the  peace  that  floated 
On  the  white  mist,  and  dwelt  upon  the  hills, 
To  sweet  accord  subdued  our  wayward  wills  : 

One  soul  was  ours,   one  mind,   one  heart  devoted, 

That,  wisely  doting,   ask'd  not  why  it  doted, 
And  ours  the  unknown  joy,  which  knowing  kills. 
But  now  I  find  now  dear  thou  wert  to  me ; 

That  man  is  more  than  half  of  nature's  treasure, 
Of  that  fair  beauty  which  no  eye  can  see, 

Of  that  sweet  music  which  no  ear  can  measure ; 

And  now  the  streams  may  sing  for  others'  pleasure, 
The  hills  sleep  on  in  their  eternity. 

75« 


THOMAS  HOOD 
(-47.  Autumn  ,798_,845 

T    SAW  old  Autumn  in  the  misty  morn 
-^      Stand  shadowless  like  Silence,  listening 
To  silence,   for  no  lonely  bird  would  sing 
Into  his  hollow  ear  from  woods  forlorn, 
Nor  lowly  hedge  nor  solitary  thorn ; — 
Shaking  his  languid  locks  all  dewy  bright 
With  tangled  gossamer  that  fell  by  night, 
Pearling  his  coronet  of  golden  corn. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Summer  ? — With  the  sun, 

Oping  the  dusky  eyelids  of  the  south, 

Till  shade  and  silence  waken  up  as  one, 

And  Morning  sings  with  a  warm  odorous  mouth. 

Where  are  the  merry  birds  ? — Away,  away, 

On  panting  wings  through  the  inclement  skies, 

Lest  owls  should  prey 

Undazzled  at  noonday, 
And  tear  with  horny  beak  their  lustrous  eyes. 

Where  are  the  blooms  of  Summer? — In   the  west, 
Blushing  their  last  to  the  last  sunny  hours, 
When  the  mild  Eve  by  sudden  Night  is  prest 
Like  tearful  Proserpine,   snatch'd  from  her  flow'rs 

To  a  most  gloomy  breast. 

Where  is  the  pride  of  Summer, — the  green  prime, — 
The  many,   many  leaves  all  twinkling  ? — Three 
On  the  moss'd  elm  ;    three  on  the  naked  lime 
Trembling, — and  one  upon  the  old  oak-tree ! 

Where  is  the  Dryad's  immortality? — 
Gone  into  mournful  cypress  and  dark  yew, 
Or  wearing  the  long  gloomy  Winter  through 

In  the  smooth  holly's  green  eternity. 

75* 


THOMAS  HOOD 

The  squirrel  gloats  on  his  accomplish'd  hoard, 

The  ants  have  brimm'd  their  garners  with  ripe  grain, 

And  honey  bees  have  stored 
The  sweets  of  Summer  in  their  luscious  cells ; 
The  swallows  all  have  wing'd  across  the  main ; 
But  here  the  Autumn  melancholy  dwells, 

And  sighs  her  tearful  spells 
Amongst  the  sunless  shadows  of  the  plain. 
Alone,  alone, 
Upon  a  mossy  stone, 

She  sits  and  reckons  up  the  dead  and  gone 
With  the  last  leaves  for  a  love-rosary, 
Whilst  all  the  wither'd  world  looks  drearily, 
Like  a  dim  picture  of  the  drowned  past 
In  the  hush'd  mind's  mysterious  far  away, 
Doubtful  what  ghostly  thing  will  steal  the  last 
Into  that  distance,  gray  upon  the  gray. 

O  go  and  sit  with  her,  and  be  o'ershaded 
Under  the  languid  downfall  of  her  hair : 
She  wears  a  coronal  of  flowers  faded 
Upon  her  forehead,  and  a  face  of  care; — 
There  is  enough  of  wither'd  everywhere 
To  make  her  bower, — and  enough  of  gloom ; 
There  is  enough  of  sadness  to  invite, 
If  only  for  the  rose  that  died,  whose  doom 
Is  Beauty's, — she  that  with  the  living  bloom 
Of  conscious  cheeks  most  beautifies  the  light: 
There  is  enough  of  sorrowing,  and  quite 
Enough  of  bitter  fruits  the  earth  doth  bear, — 
Enough  of  chilly  droppings  for  her  bowl ; 
Enough  of  fear  and  shadowy  despair, 
To  frame  her  cloudy  prison  for  the  soul ! 


THOMAS  HOOD 
648.  Silence 

HTHERE  is  a  silence  where  hath  been  no  sound, 
*       There  is  a  silence  where  no  sound  may  be, 

In  the  cold  grave — under  the  deep,  deep  sea, 
Or  in  wide  desert  where  no  life  is  found, 
Which  hath  been  mute,  and  still  must  sleep  profound ; 

No  voice  is  hush'd — no  life  treads   silently, 

But  clouds  and  cloudy  shadows  wander  free, 
That  never  spoke,  over  the  idle  ground : 
But  in  green  ruins,  in  the  desolate  walls 

Of  antique  palaces,   where  Man  hath  been, 
Though  the  dun  fox  or  wild  hyaena  calls, 

And  owls,  that  flit  continually  between, 
Shriek  to  the  echo,  and  the  low  winds  moan — 
There  the  true  Silence  is,  self-conscious  and  alone. 


649.  T>eath 

TT  is  not  death,  that  sometime  in  a  sigh 

This  eloquent  breath  shall  take  its  speechless  flight; 
That  sometime  these  bright  stars,  that  now  reply 

In  sunlight  to  the  sun,  shall  set  in  night ; 

That  this  warm  conscious  flesh  shall  perish  quite, 
And  all  life's  ruddy  springs  forget  to  flow ; 

That  thoughts  shall  cease,  and  the  immortal  sprite 
Be  lapp'd  in  alien  clay  and  laid  below; 
It  is  not  death  to  know  this — but  to  know 

That  pious  thoughts,  which  visit  at  new  graves 
In  tender  pilgrimage,  will  cease  to  go 

So  duly  and  so  oft — and  when  grass  waves 
Over  the  pass'd-away,  there  may  be  then 
No  resurrection  in  the  minds  of  men. 


THOMAS  HOOD 


650.  Fair  fries 

SAW  ye  not  fair  Ines  ? 

She  's  gone  into  the  West, 
To  dazzle  when  the  sun  is  down, 

And  rob  the  world  of  rest: 
She  took  our  daylight  with  her, 
The  smiles  that  we  love  best, 
With  morning  blushes  on  her  cheek, 
And  pearls  upon  her  breast. 

0  turn  again,   fair  Ines, 
Before  the  fall  of  night, 

For  fear  the  Moon  should  shine  alone, 
And  stars  unrivall'd  bright; 

And  blessed  will  the  lover  be 
That  walks  beneath  their  light, 

And  breathes  the  love  against  thy  cheek 
I  dare  not   even  write ! 

Would  I  had  been,  fair  Ines, 

That  gallant  cavalier, 
Who  rode  so  gaily  by  thy  side, 

And  whisper'd  thee  so  near! 
Were  there  no  bonny  dames  at  home, 

Or  no  true  lovers  here, 
That  he  should  cross  the  seas  to  win 

The  dearest  of  the  dear  ? 

1  saw  thee,  lovely  Ines, 
Descend  along  the  shore, 

With  bands  of  noble  gentlemen, 
And  banners  waved  before ; 


THOMAS  HOOD 

And  gentle  youth  and  maidens  gay, 
And  snowy  plumes  they  wore : 

It  would  have  been  a  beauteous  dream,  - 
If  it  had  been  no  more  1 

Alas,  alas !    fair  Ines, 

She  went  away  with  song, 
With  Music  waiting  on  her  steps, 

And  shoutings  of  the  throng ; 
But  some  were  sad,  and  felt  no  mirth, 

But  only  Music's  wrong, 
In  sounds  that  sang  Farewell,   farewell, 

To  her  you've  loved  so  long. 

Farewell,  farewell,   fair  Ines ! 

That  vessel  never  bore 
So  fair  a  lady  on  its  deck, 

Nor  danced  so  light  before, — 
Alas  for  pleasure  on  the  sea, 

And  sorrow  on  the  shore  ! 
The  smile  that  bless'd  one  lover's  heart 

Has  broken  many  more  ! 


I 


6fi.  Time  of  Roses 

'T  was  not  in  the  Winter 

Our  loving  lot  was  cast ; 
It  was  the  time  of  roses — 

We  pluck'd  them  as  we  pass'd ! 

That  churlish  season  never  frown'd 

On  early  lovers  yet : 
O  no — the  world  was  newly  crown'd 

With  flowers  when  first  we  met! 
756 


THOMAS  HOOD 

Twas  twilight,  and  I  bade  you  go, 
But  stili  you  held  me  fast; 

It  was  the  time  of  roses — 

We  pluck'd  them  as  we  pass'd  ! 


Ruth 

OHE  stood  breast-high  amid  the  corn, 
^     Clasp'd  by  the  golden  light  of  morn, 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  sun, 
Who  many  a  glowing  kiss  had  won. 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush, 
Deeply  ripen'd  ; — such  a  blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  born, 
Like  red  poppies  grown  with  corn. 

Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell, 
Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell. 
But  long  lashes  veil'd  a  light, 
That  had  else  been  all  too  bright. 

And  her  hat,  with  shady  brim. 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim  ; 
Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stocks, 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks: — 

Sure,  I  said,   Heav'n  did  not  mean, 
Where  1  reap  thou  shouldst  but  glean. 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown  and  come, 
Share  my  harvest  and  my  home. 


757 


THOMAS  HOOD 


.  The  fDeath-bett 

YW"E  watch'd  her  breathing  thro'  the  night, 

Her  breathing  soft  and  low, 
As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 
Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

So  silently  we  seem'd  to  speak, 

So  slowly  moved  about, 
As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 

To  eke  her  living  out. 

Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears, 

Our  fears  our  hopes  belied — 
We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept, 

And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  morn  came  dim  and  sad, 

And  chill  with  early  showers, 
Her  quiet  eyelids  closed — she  had 

Another  morn  than  ours. 


The  Bridge  of  Sighs 

ONE  more  Unfortunate, 
Weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care ; 

Fashion'd  so  slenderly 
Young,  and  so  fair ! 


THOMAS  HOOD 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements; 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly 

Drips  from  her  clothing; 
Take  her  up  instantly, 

Loving,  not  loathing. 

Touch  her  not  scornfully; 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 

Gently  and  humanly ; 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her, 
All  that  remains  of  her 

Now  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 

Rash  and  undutiful : 
Past  all  dishonour, 
Death  has  left  on  her 

Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers, 

One  of  Eve's   family — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers 

Oozing  so  clammily. 

Loop  up  her  tresses 

Escaped  from  the  comb, 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses ; 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses 

Where  was  her  home  ? 

Who  was  her  father? 
Who  was  her  mother  ? 

759 


THOMAS  HOOD 

Had  she  a   sister  ? 

Had  she  a  brother? 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 

Yet,  than  all  other  ? 

Alas  !    for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 

Under  the  sun  ! 
O,  it  was  pitiful ! 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 

Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,   motherly 

Feelings  had  changed : 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence; 
Even  God's  providence 

Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a  light 
From  window  and  casement, 
From  garret  to  basement, 
She  stood,  with  amazement, 

Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 

Made  her  tremble  and  shiver  j 
But  not  the  dark  arch, 
Or  the  black  flowing  river: 


THOMAS  HOOD 

Mad  from  life's  history. 
Glad  to  death's  mystery, 

Swift  to  be  hurl'd — 
Anywhere,  anywhere 

Out  of  the  world  ! 

In  she  plunged  boldly — 
No  matter  how  coldly 

The  rough  river  ran — 
Over  the  brink  of  it, 
Picture  it — think  of  it, 

Dissolute  Man ! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 

Then,  if  you  can  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care; 

Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair  1 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 

Decently,   kindly, 
Smooth  and  compose  them ; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 

Staring  so  blindly  1 

Dreadfully  staring 

Thro'  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 

Fix'd  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurr'd  by  contumely, 


THOMAS  HOOD 

Cold  inhumanity, 
Burning  insanity, 

Into  her  rest. — 
Cross  her  hands  humbly 
As  if  praying  dumbly, 
Over  her  breast  ! 

Owning  her  weakness, 
Her  evil  behaviour, 

And  leaving,   with  meekness, 
Her  sins  to  her  Saviour ! 


WILLIAM  THOM 

ff.        The  Blind  Bo/ s  T  ranks 

1798-1848 

\  ft  EN  grew  sae  cauld,  maids  sae  unkind, 
•^          Love  kentna  whaur  to  stay : 
Wi'  fient  an  arrow,  bow,  or  string — 
Wi'  droopin'  heart  an'  drizzled  wing, 
He  faught  his  lonely  way. 

'  Is  there  nae  mair  in  Garioch  fair 

Ae  spotless  hame  for  me? 
Hae  politics  an'  corn  an'  kye 
Ilk  bosom  stappit  ?  Fie,  O  fieJ 

I'll  swithe  me  o'er  the  sea.' 

He  launch'd  a  leaf  o'  jessamine, 

On  whilk  he  daur'd  to  swim, 
An'  pillow'd  his  head  on  a  wee  rosebud, 
Syne  laithfu',  lanely,   Love  'gan  scud 

Down  Ury's  waefu'  stream. 

.  kentna]  knew  not.  wi'  fient  an  arrow]  i.  q.  with  deuce  a 

.  swithe]  hie  quickly.  laithfu']  regretful. 


WILLIAM  THOM 

The  birds  sang  bonnie  as  Love  drew  near, 

But  dowie  when  he  gaed  by ; 
Till  lull'd  wi'  the  sough  o'  monie  a  sang, 
He  sleepit  fu'  soun'  and  sail'd  alang 

'Neath  Heaven's  gowden  sky. 

*Twas  just  whaur  creeping  Ury  greets 

Its  mountain  cousin  Don, 
There  wander'd  forth  a  weelfaur'd  dame, 
Wha  listless  gazed  on  the  bonnie  stream, 
As  it  flirted  an'  play'd  with  a  sunny  beam 

That  flicker'd  its  bosom  upon. 

Love  happit  his  head,   I  trow,  that  time 

The  jessamine  bark  drew  nigh, 
The  lassie  espied  the  wee  rosebud, 
An'  aye  her  heart  gae  thud  for  thud, 

An'  quiet  it  wadna  lie. 

'  O  gin  I  but  had  yon  wearie  wee  flower 
That  floats  on  the  Ury  sae  fair ! ' — 

She  lootit  her  hand  for  the  silly  rose-leaf, 

But  little  wist  she  o'  the  pawkie  thief 
That  was  lurkin'  an'  laughin'  there  ! 

Love  glower'd  when  he  saw  her  bonnie  dark  e'e, 

An'  swore  by  Heaven's  grace 
He  ne'er  had  seen  nor  thought  to  see, 
Since  e'er  he  left  the  Paphian  lea, 

Sae  lovely  a  dwallin'-place. 

dowie]  dejectedly.       weelfaur'd]  well-favoured,  comely.       happit] 
covered  up.        lootit]  lowered.        pawkie]  sly.         glower'd]  stared. 

763 


WILLIAM  THOM 

Syne  first  of  a'  in  her  blythesome  breast 

He  built  a  bower,  I  ween  ; 
An'  what  did  the  waefu'  devilick  neist  ? 
But  kindled  a  gleam  like  the  rosy  east, 

That  sparkled  frae  baith  her  e'en. 

An'  then  beneath  ilk  high  e'e-bree 

He  placed  a  quiver  there; 
His  bow  ?   What  but  her  shinin'  brow  ? 
An'  O  sic  deadly  strings  he  drew 

Frae  out  her  silken  hair! 

Guid  be  our  guard !     Sic  deeds  waur  deen 

Roun'  a'  our  countrie  then ; 
An'  monie  a  hangin'  lug  was  seen 
'Mang  farmers  fat,  an'  lawyers  lean, 

An'  herds  o'  common  men ! 


SIR  HENRY  TAYLOR 

656.  Elena's  Song 

1800-1 

QUOTH  tongue  of  neither  maid  nor  wife 
To  heart  of  neither  wife  nor  maid — 
Lead  we  not  here  a  jolly  life 
Betwixt  the  shine  and  shade? 

Quoth  heart  of  neither  maid  nor  wife 
To  tongue  of  neither  wife  nor  maid — • 

Thou  wagg'st,  but  I  am  worn  with  strife, 
And  feel  like  flowers  that  fade. 

6jj.  e'e-bree]  eyebrow.  lug]  ear. 

764 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY, 
LORD  MACAULAY 

657.  A  Jacobite's  Epitaph 

1800-1859 
"TO  my  true  king  I  ofFer'd  free  from  stain 

Courage  and  faith  ;    vain  faith,  and  courage  vain. 
For  him  I  threw  lands,  honours,  wealth,  away, 
And  one  dear  hope,  that  was  more  prized  than  they. 
For  him  I  languish'd  in  a  foreign  clime, 
Gray-hair'd  with  sorrow  in  my  manhood's  prime ; 
Heard  on  Lavernia  Scargill's  whispering  trees, 
And  pined  by  Arno  for  my  lovelier  Tees ; 
Beheld  each  night  my  home  in  fever'd  sleep, 
Each  morning  started  from  the  dream  to  weep ; 
Till  God,  who  saw  me  tried  too  sorely,  gave 
The  resting-place  I  ask'd,  an  early  grave. 
O  thou,  whom  chance  leads  to  this  nameless  stone, 
From  that  proud  country  which  was  once  mine  own, 
By  those  white  cliffs  I  never  more  must  see, 
By  that  dear  language  which  I  spake  like  thee, 
Forget  all  feuds,  and  shed  one  English  tear 
O'er  English  dust.     A  broken  heart  lies  here. 


WILLIAM  BARNES 

Mater  Ttolorosa 

1801-1886 

I'D  a  dream  to-night 
As  I  fell  asleep, 
O  !    the  touching  sight 
Makes  me  still  to  weep : 


WILLIAM  BARNES 

Of  my  little  lad, 
Gone  to  leave  me  sad, 
Ay,  the  child  I  had, 
But  was  not  to  keep. 

As  in  heaven  high, 
I  my  child  did  seek, 

There  in  train  came  by 
Children  fair  and   meek, 

Each  in  lily  white, 

With  a  lamp  alight ; 

Each  was  clear  to  sight, 
But  they  did  not  speak, 

Then,  a  little  sad, 

Came  my  child  in  turn, 
But  the  lamp  he  had, 

O  it  did  not  burn  ! 
He,  to  clear  my  doubt, 
Said,  half  turn'd  about, 
'Your  tears  put  it  out; 

Mother,  never  mourn.* 


659.  The  Ifife  a- lost 

CINCE  I  noo  mwore  do  zee  your  fe'ace, 
^     Up  ste'ars  or  down  below, 
I'll  zit  me  in  the  Iwonesome  pleace, 

Where  flat-bough'd  beech  do  grow  ; 
Below  the  beeches'  bough,  my  love, 

Where  you  did  never  come, 
An'  I  don't  look  to  meet  ye  now, 

As  I  do  look  at  hwome. 


WILLIAM  BARNES 

Since  you  noo  mwore  be  at  my  zide, 

In  walks  in  zummer  het, 
I'll  goo  alwone  where  mist  do  ride, 

Droo  trees  a-drippen  wet ; 
Below  the  ram-wet  bough,   my  love, 

Where  you  did  never  come, 
An'  I  don't  grieve  to  miss  ye  now, 

As  I  do  grieve  at  hwome. 
Since  now  bezide  my  dinner-bwoard 

Your  vaTce  do  never  sound, 
I'll  eat  the  bit  I  can  a v word 

A-vield  upon  the  ground ; 
Below  the  darksome  bough,  my  love, 

Where  you  did  never  dine, 
An'  I  don't  grieve  to  miss  ye  now, 

As  I  at  hwome  do  pine. 
Since  I  do  miss  your  vaTce  an'  feaee 

In  prayer  at  eventide, 
I'll  pray  wi'  woone  sad  vaice  vor  grea'ct 

To  goo  where  you  do  bide ; 
Above  the  tree  an'  bough,  my  love, 

Where  you  be  gone  avore, 
An'  be  a-waiten  vor  me  now, 

To  come  vor  evermwore. 


W1NTHROP  MACKWORTH  PRAED 

660.  Fairy  Song 

1802-1839 

L_I  E  has  conn'd  the  lesson  now ; 

He  has  read  the  book  of  pain : 
There  are  furrows  on  his  brow ; 
I   must  make  it  smooth  again. 

767 


W1NTHROP  MACKWORTH  PRAED 

Lo !    I  knock  the  spurs  away ; 

Lo!    I  loosen  belt  and  brand; 
Hark  !    I  hear  the  courser  neigh 

For  his  stall  in  Fairy-land. 

Bring  the  cap,  and  bring  the  vest; 

Buckle  on  his  sandal  shoon ; 
Fetch  his  memory  from  the  chest 

In  the  treasury  of  the  moon. 

I  have  taught  him  to  be  wise 
For  a  little  maiden's  sake; — 

Lo!  he  opens  his  glad  eyes, 
Softly,  slowly:  Minstrel,  wake! 


SARA  COLERIDGE 
661.  0  sleep,  my  Babe 

i8oj-i8sc 

f~\   SLEEP,  my  babe,  hear  not  the  rippling  wave, 
^•^      Nor  feel  the  breeze  that  round  thee  ling' ring  strays 

To  drink  thy  balmy  breath, 

And  sigh  one  long  farewell. 

Soon  shall  it  mourn  above  thy  wat'ry  bed, 
And  whisper  to  me,  on  the  wave-beat  shore, 

Deep  murm'ring  in  reproach, 

Thy  sad  untimely  fate. 

Ere  those  dear  eyes  had  open'd  on  the  light, 
In  vain  to  plead,  thy  coming  life  was  sold, 

O   waken'd  but  to  sleep, 

Whence  it  can  wake  no  more! 
768 


SARA  COLERIDGE 

A  thousand  and  a  thousand  silken  leaves 
The  tufted  beech  unfolds  in  early  spring. 

All  clad  in  tenderest  green, 

All  of  the  self-same  shape : 

A  thousand  infant  faces,   soft  and  sweet, 
Each  year  sends  forth,   yet  every  mother  views 

Her  last  not  least  beloved 

Like  its  dear  self  alone. 

No  musing  mind  hath  ever  yet  foreshaped 
The  face  to-morrow's  sun   shall  first  reveal, 
No  heart  hath  e'er  conceived 
What  love  that  face  will  bring. 

O   sleep,   my  babe,   nor  heed  how  mourns  the  gale 
To  part  with  thy  soft  locks  and  fragrant  breath, 

As  when  it  deeply  sighs 

O'er  autumn's  latest  bloom. 


662.  The  Child 

C  EE  yon  blithe  child  that  dances  in  our  sight ! 
^     Can  gloomy  shadows  fall  from  one  so  bright  ? 

Fond  mother,  whence  these  fears  ? 
While  buoyantly  he  rushes  o'er  the  lawn, 
Dream  not  of  clouds  to  stain  his  manhood's  dawn, 

Nor  dim  that  sight  with  tears. 

No  cloud  he  spies  in  brightly  glowing  hours, 
But  feels  as  if  the  newly   vested  bowers 

For  him  could  never  fade : 
Too  well  we  know  that  vernal  pleasures  fleet, 
But  having  him,   so  gladsome,  fair,  and  sweet, 

Our  loss  is  overpaid. 

CC  769 


SARA  COLERIDGE 

Amid  the  balmiest  flowers  that  earth  can  give 
Some  bitter  drops  distil,   and  all  that  live 

A  mingled  portion  share ; 

But,  while  he  learns  these  truths  which  we  lament, 
Such  fortitude  as  ours  will  sure  be  sent, 

Such  solace  to  his  care. 


GERALD  GRIFFIN 
66$.  Eileen  Aroon 


like  the  early  rose, 

Eileen  Aroon  ! 
Beauty  in  childhood  blows, 

Eileen  Aroon  ! 
When,  like  a  diadem, 
Buds  blush  around  the  stem, 
Which  is  the  fairest  gem  ?  — 
Eileen  Aroon! 

Is  it  the  laughing  eye, 

Eileen  Aroon  ! 

Is  it  the  timid  sigh, 

Eileen  Aroon  ! 

Is  it  the  tender  tone, 

Soft  as  the  string'd  harp's  moan  ? 

O,  it  is  truth  alone,  — 

Eileen  Aroon  ! 

When  like  the  rising  day, 

Eileen  Aroon  ! 
Love  sends  his  early  ray, 

Eileen  Aroon! 
77° 


GERALD  GRIFFIN 

What  makes  his  dawning  glow, 
Changeless  through  joy  or  woe? 
Only  the  constant  know : — 
Eileen  Aroon ! 

I  know  a  valley  fair, 

Eileen  Aroon  ! 
I  knew  a  cottage  there, 

Eileen  Aroon ! 
Far  in  that  valley's  shade 
I  knew  a  gentle  maid, 
Flower  of  a  hazel  glade, — 

Eileen  Aroon ! 

Who  in  the  song  so  sweet? 

Eileen  Aroon ! 
Who  in  the  dance  so  fleet? 

Eileen  Aroon ! 

Dear  were  her  charms  to  me, 
Dearer  her  laughter  free, 
Dearest  her  constancy, — 

Eileen  Aroon ! 

Were  she  no  longer  true, 

Eileen  Aroon  ! 

What  should  her  lover  do? 
Eileen  Aroon ! 

Fly  with  his  broken  chain 

Far  o'er  the  sounding  main, 

Never  to  love  again, — 

Eileen  Aroon! 

Youth  must  with  time  decay, 
Eileen  Aroon ! 


77' 


GERALD  GRIFFIN 

Beauty  must  fade  away, 

Eileen  Aroon ! 
Castles  are  sack'd  in  war. 
Chieftains  are  scatter'd  far, 
Truth  is  a  fixed  star, — 

Eileen  Aroon ! 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN 

664.  "Dark  Rosaleen 

OMY  Dark  Rosaleen, 
Do  not  sigh,  do  not  weep! 
The  priests  are  on  the  ocean  green, 

They  march  along  the  deep. 
There 's  wine  from  the  royal   Pope, 

Upon  the  ocean  green  ; 
And  Spanish  ale  shall  give  you  hope, 

My  Dark    Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 

Shall  glad  your  heart,   shall  give  you  hope, 
Shall  give  you  health,  and  help,   and  hope. 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

Over  hills,   and  thro'  dales, 

Have  I  roam'd  for  your  sake; 
All  yesterday  I  sail'd  with  sails 

On  river  and  on  lake. 
The  Erne,  at  its  highest  flood, 

I  dash'd  across  unseen, 
For  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 
O,   there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 
Red  lightning  lighten'd  thro'  my  blood. 

My  Dark    Rosaleen  ! 

All  day  long,   in  unrest, 

To  and  fro,  do  I  move. 
The  very  soul  within  my  breast 

Is  wasted  for  you,  love  ! 
The  heart  in  my  bosom  faints 

To  think  of  you,  my  Queen, 
My  life  of  life,  my  saint  of  saints, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen ! 

To  hear  your  sweet  and  sad  complaints, 
My  life,   my  love,   my  saint  of  saints, 

My  Dark    Rosaleen  ! 

Woe  and  pain,  pain  and  woe, 

Are  my  lot,   night  and  noon, 
To  see  your  bright  face  clouded  so, 

Like  to  the  mournful   moon. 
But  yet  will   I  rear  your  throne 

Again  in  golden  sheen ; 
'Tis  you  shall  reign,   shall  reign  alone, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 
Tis  you  shall  have  the  golden  throne, 
'Tis  you  shall  reign,   and  reign  alone, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

Over  dews,  over  sands, 

Will  I  fly,  for  your  weal : 
Your  holy  delicate  white  hands 

Shall  girdle  me  with  steel. 

773 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN 

At  home,  in  your  emerald  bowers, 

From  morning's  dawn  till  e'en, 
You'll  pray  for  me,  my  flower  of  flowers, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen! 

My  fond  Rosaleen! 

You'll  think  of  me  through  daylight  hours, 
My  virgin  flower,  my  flower  of  flowers, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

I  could  scale  the  blue  air, 

I  could  plough  the  high  hills, 
O,   I  could  kneel  all  night  in  prayer, 

To  heal  your  many  ills  ! 
And  one  beamy  smile  from  you 

Would  float  like  light  between 
My  toils  and  me,  my  own,  my  true, 

My  Dark    Rosaleen  ! 

My  fond  Rosaleen ! 
Would  give  me  life  and   soul   anew, 
A  second  life,  a  soul  anew, 

My  Dark   Rosaleen  ! 

O,  the  Erne  shall  run  red, 

With  redundance  of  blood, 
The  earth  shall  rock  beneath  our  tread, 

And  flames  wrap  hill  and  wood, 
And  gun-peal  and  slogan-cry 

Wake  many  a  glen  serene, 
Ere  you  shall  fade,  ere  you  shall  die, 

My  Dark   Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen ! 

The  Judgement  Hour  must  first  be  nigh, 
Ere  you  can  fade,  ere  you  can  die, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 
774 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN 
66$.  The  Nameless  One 

"DOLL  forth,  my  song,  like  the  rushing  river, 

That  sweeps  along  to  the  mighty  sea ; 
God  will  inspire  me  while  I  deliver 
My  soul  of  thee ! 

Tell  thou  the  world,   when  my  bones  lie  whitening 

Amid  the  last  homes  of  youth  and  eld, 
That  once  there  was  one  whose  veins  ran  lightning 
No  eye  beheld. 

Tell  how  his  boyhood  was  one  drear  night-hour, 

How  shone  for  him,   through  his  griefs  and  gloom, 
No  star  of  all  heaven  sends  to  light  our 
Path  to  the  tomb. 

Roll  on,  my  song,  and  to  after  ages 

Tell  how,  disdaining  all  earth  can  give, 
He  would  have  taught  men,  from  wisdom's  pages, 
The  way  to  live. 

And  tell  how  trampled,   derided,   hated, 

And  worn  by  weakness,  disease,  and  wrong, 
He  fled  for  shelter  to  God,  who  mated 
His  soul  with  song. 

— With  song  which  alway,   sublime  or  vapid, 

Flow'd  like  a  rill  in  the  morning  beam, 
Perchance  not  deep,   but  intense  and  rapid — 
A  mountain  stream. 

Tell  how  this  Nameless,   condemn'd  for  years  long 

To  herd  with  demons  from  hell  beneath, 
Saw  things  that  made  him,   with  groans  and  tears,  long 
For  even  death. 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN 

Go  on  to  tell  how,  with  genius  wasted, 

Betray'd  in  friendship,   befool'd  in  love, 
With  spirit  shipwreck'd,   and  young  hopes  blasted, 
He  still,  still  strove; 

Till,   spent  with  toil,  dreeing  death  for  others 

(And  some  whose  hands  should  have  wrought  for  him, 
If  children  live  not  for  sires  and  mothers), 
His  mind  grew  dim  ; 

And  he  fell  far  through  that  pit  abysmal, 

The  gulf  and  grave  of  Maginn  and  Burns, 
And  pawn'd  his  soul  for  the  devil's  dismal 
Stock  of  returns. 

But  yet  redeem'd  it  in  days  of  darkness, 

And  shapes  and  signs  of  the  final  wrath, 
When  death,  in  hideous  and  ghastly  starkness, 
Stood  on  his  path. 

And  tell  how  now,  amid  wreck  and  sorrow, 

And  want,  and  sickness,  and  houseless  nights, 
He  bides  in  calmness  the  silent   morrow, 
That  no  ray  lights. 

And  lives  he  still,  then  ?     Yes  !      Old  and  hoary 

At  thirty-nine,  from  despair  and  woe, 
He  lives,  enduring  what  future  story 
Will  never  know. 

Him  grant  a  grave  to,   ye  pitying  noble, 

Deep  in  your  bosoms :    there  let  him  dwell  ! 
He,  too,  had  tears  for  all   souls  in   trouble, 

Here  and  in  hell. 
776 


THOMAS  LOVELL  BEDDOES 
666.  Wolfram's  Dirge 


I 


1803-1849 
F  thou  wilt  ease  thine  heart 


Of  love  and  all  its  smart, 
Then  sleep,  dear,  sleep ; 
And  not  a   sorrow 

Hang  any  tear  on  your  eyelashes  ; 

Lie  still  and  deep, 
Sad  soul,  until  the   sea-wave  washes 
The  rim  o'  the  sun  to-morrow, 
In  eastern  sky. 

But  wilt  thou  cure  thine  heart 
Of  love  and  all  its  smart, 

Then  die,  dear,    die; 
Tis  deeper,  sweeter, 

Than  on  a  rose-bank  to  lie  dreaming 

With  folded  eye; 

And  there  alone,   amid  the  beaming 
Of  Love's  stars,  thou'lt  meet  her 
In  eastern  sky. 


667.  T>  ream-Tedla  ry 

TF  there  were  dreams  to  sell, 
•*•      What  would  you  buy  ? 
Some  cost  a  passing   bell; 

Some  a  light  sigh, 

That  shakes  from  Life's  fresh  crown 
Only  a  rose-leaf  down. 

CC  3  777 


THOMAS  LOVELL  BEDDOES 

If  there  were  dreams  to  sell, 
Merry  and  sad  to  tell, 
And  the  crier  rang  the  bell, 
What  would  you  buy? 

A  cottage  lone  and  still, 

With  bowers  nigh, 
Shadowy,  my  woes  to  still, 

Until  I  die. 

Such  pearl  from  Life's  fresh  crown 
Fain  would  I  shake  me    down. 
Were  dreams  to  have  at  will, 
This  would  best  heal  my  ill, 

This  would  I  buy. 


6(58.  Song 

\  O  W  many  times  do  I  love  thee,  dear  ? 


H 


Tell  me  how  many  thoughts  there  be 
In  the  atmosphere 
Of  a  new-fall'n  year, 
Whose  white  and  sable  hours  appear 

The  latest  flake  of  Eternity : 
So  many  times  do  I  love  thee,  dear. 

How  many  times  do  I  love  again  ? 
Tell  me  how  many  beads  there  are 
In  a  silver  chain 
Of  evening  rain, 
Unravell'd  from  the  tumbling  main, 

And  threading  the  eye  of  a  yellow  star: 
So  many  times  do  I  love  again. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 
669.  Give  All  to  Love 

ii 

/^IVE  all  to  love; 

^-*      Obey  thy  heart; 

Friends,  kindred,  days, 

Estate,  good  fame, 

Plans,  credit,  and  the  Muse — 

Nothing  refuse. 

"Pis  a  brave  master; 
Let  it  have  scope : 
Follow  it  utterly, 
Hope  beyond  hope: 
High  and  more  high 
It  dives  into  noon, 
With  wing  unspent, 
Untold  intent ; 
But  it  is  a  god, 
Knows  its  own  path, 
And  the  outlets  of  the  sky 

It  was  never  for  the  mean; 
It  requireth  courage  stout, 
Souls  above  doubt, 
Valour  unbending: 
Such  'twill  reward; — 
They  shall  return 
More  than  they  were. 
And  ever  ascending. 

Leave  all  for  love  ; 

Yet,  hear  me,   yet, 

One  word  more  thy  heart  behoved, 

One  pulse  more  of  firm  endeavour — 

779 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

Keep  thee  to-day, 
To-morrow,  for  ever, 
Free  as  an  Arab 
Of  thy  beloved. 

Cling  with  life  to  the  maid ; 

But  when  the  surprise, 

First  vague  shadow  of  surmise, 

Flits  across  her  bosom  young, 

Of  a  joy  apart  from  thee, 

Free  be  she,  fancy-free; 

Nor  thou  detain  her  vesture's  hem, 

Nor  the  palest  rose  she  flung 

From  her  summer  diadem. 

Though  thou  loved  her  as  thyself, 

As  a  self  of  purer  clay ; 

Though  her  parting  dims  the  day. 

Stealing  grace  from  all  alive  : 

Heartily  know, 

When  half-gods  go 

The  gods  arrive. 

670.  Uriel 

TT  fell  in  the  ancient  periods 

Which  the  brooding  soul  surveys, 
Or  ever  the  wild  Time  coin'd  itself 
Into  calendar  months  and  days. 

This  was  the  lapse  of  Uriel, 
Which  in  Paradise  befell. 
Once,  among  the  Pleiads  walking, 
Sayd  overheard  the  young  gods  talking ; 
780 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

And  the  treason,  too  long  pent, 

To  his  ears  was  evident. 

The  young  deities  discuss'd 

Laws  of  form,   and  metre  just, 

Orb,  quintessence,  and  sunbeams, 

What  subsisteth,   and  what  seems. 

One,   with  low  tones  that  decide, 

And  doubt  and  reverend  use  defied, 

With  a  look  that  solved  the  sphere, 

And  stirr'd  the  devils  everywhere, 

Gave  his  sentiment  divine 

Against  the  being  of  a  line. 

'  Line  in  nature  is  not  found ; 

Unit  and  universe  are  round  ; 

In  vain  produced,   all  rays  return  ; 

Evil  will  bless,  and  ice  will  burn.' 

As  Uriel  spoke  with  piercing  eye, 

A  shudder  ran  around  the  sky  ; 

The  stern  old  war-gods  shook  their  heads ; 

The  seraphs  frown'd  from  myrtle-beds ; 

Seem'd  to  the  holy  festival 

The  rash  word  boded  ill  to  all; 

The  balance-beam  of  Fate  was  bent ; 

The  bounds  of  good  and  ill  were  rent ; 

Strong  Hades  could  not  keep  his  owns 

But  all  slid  to  confusion. 

A  sad  self-knowledge  withering  fell 
On  the  beauty  of  Uriel ; 
In  heaven  once  eminent,   the  god 
Withdrew  that  hour  into  his  cloud  ; 
Whether  doom'd  to  long  gyration 
In  the  sea  of  generation, 

78i 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

Or  by  knowledge  grown  too  bright 

To  hit  the  nerve  of  feebler  sight. 

Straightway  a  forgetting  wind 

Stole  over  the  celestial  kind, 

And  their  lips  the  secret  kept, 

If  in  ashes  the  fire-seed  slept. 

But,  now  and  then,  truth-speaking  things 

Shamed  the  angels'  veiling  wings; 

And,  shrilling  from  the  solar  course, 

Or  from  fruit  of  chemic  force, 

Procession  of  a  soul  in  matter, 

Or  the  speeding  change  of  water, 

Or  out  of  the  good  of  evil  born, 

Came  Uriel's  voice  of  cherub  scorn, 

And  a  blush  tinged  the  upper  sky, 

And  the  gods  shook,  they  knew  not  why. 

671.  Bacchus 

ID  RING  me  wine,  but  wine  which  never  grew 

•*-^      In  the  belly  of  the  grape, 

Or  grew  on  vine  whose  tap-roots,   reaching  through 

Under  the  Andes  to  the  Cape, 

SufFer'd  no  savour  of  the  earth  to  'scape. 

Let  its  grapes  the  morn  salute 

From  a  nocturnal  root, 

Which  feels  the  acrid  juice 

Of  Styx  and  Erebus ; 

And  turns  the  woe  of  Night, 

By  its  own  craft,  to  a  more  rich  delight. 

We  buy  ashes  for  bread; 
We  buy  diluted  wine; 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

Give  me  of  the  true, 

Whose  ample  leaves  and  tendrils  curl'd 

Among  the  silver  hills  of  heaven 

Draw  everlasting  dew; 

Wine  of  wine, 

Blood  of  the  world, 

Form  of  forms,  and  mould  of  statures, 

That  I  intoxicated, 

And  by  the  draught  assimilated, 

May  float  at  pleasure  through  all  natures: 

The  bird-language  rightly  spell, 

And  that  which  roses  say  so  well : 

Wine  that  is  shed 

Like  the  torrents  of  the  sun 

Up  the  horizon  walls, 

Or  like  the  Atlantic  streams,  which  run 

When  the  South  Sea  calls. 

Water  and  bread. 
Food  which  needs  no  transmuting, 
Rainbow-flowering,  wisdom-fruiting, 
Wine  which  is  already  man, 
Food  which  teach  and  reason  can. 

Wine  which  Music  is, — 

Music  and  wine  are  one, — 

That  I,  drinking  this, 

Shall  hear  far  Chaos  talk  with  me; 

Kings  unborn  shall  walk  with  me ; 

And  the  poor  grass  shall  plot  and  plan 

What  it  will  do  when  it  is  man. 

Quicken'd  so,  will  I  unlock 

Every  crypt  of  every  rock. 

783 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

I  thank  the  joyful  juice 
For  all  I  know; 
Winds  of  remembering 
Of  the  ancient  being  blow, 
And  seeming-solid  walls  of  use 
Open  and  flow. 

Pour,  Bacchus !   the  remembering  wine ; 

Retrieve  the  loss  of  me  and  mine ! 

Vine  for  vine  be  antidote, 

And  the  grape  requite  the  lote  ! 

Haste  to  cure  the  old  despair; 

Reason  in  Nature's  lotus  drench'd — 

The  memory  of  ages  quench'd — 

Give  them  again  to  shine ; 

Let  wine  repair  what  this  undid ; 

And  where  the  infection  slid, 

A  dazzling  memory  revive  j 

Refresh  the  faded  tints, 

Recut  the  aged  prints, 

And  write  my  old  adventures  with  the  pen 

Which  on  the  first  day  drew, 

Upon  the  tablets  blue, 

The  dancing  Pleiads  and  eternal  men. 


672.  Brahma 

TF  the  red  slayer  think  he  slays, 
*•      Or  if  the  slain  think  he  is  slain, 
They  know  not  well  the  subtle  ways 
I  keep,  and  pass,  and  turn  again. 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

Far  or  forgot  to  me  is  near; 
Shadow  and  sunlight  are  the  same; 
The  vanish'd  gods  to  me  appear; 

And  one  to  me  are  shame  and  fame. 

They  reckon  ill  who  leave  me  out; 

When  me  they  fly,   I  am  the  wings; 
I  am  the  doubter  and  the  doubt, 

And  I  the  hymn  the  Brahmin  sings. 

The  strong  gods  pine  for  my  abode, 
And  pine  in  vain  the  sacred  Seven ; 

But  thou,  meek  lover  of  the  good  ! 

Find  me,  and  turn  thy  back  on  heaven. 


RICHARD  HENRY  HORNE 
The  T  lough 

A    LANDSCAPE    IN    BERKSHIRE 

1803-1884 

ABOVE  yon  sombre  swell  of  land 
•**•     Thou  see'st  the  dawn's  grave  orange  hue, 
With  one  pale  streak  like  yellow  sand, 
And  over  that  a  vein  of  blue. 

The  air  is  cold  above  the  woods; 

All  silent  is  the  earth  and  sky, 
Except  with  his  own  lonely  moods 

The  blackbird  holds  a  colloquy. 

Over  the  broad  hill  creeps  a  beam, 

Like  hope  that  gilds  a  good  man's  brow ; 

And  now  ascends  the  nostril-stream 
Of  stalwart  horses  come  to  plough. 


RICHARD  HENRY  HORNE 

Ye  rigid  Ploughmen,  bear  in  mind 

Your  labour  is  for  future  hours: 
Advance — spare  not — nor  look  behind — 

Plough  deep  and  straight  with  all  your  powers! 

ROBERT  STEPHEN  HAWKER 

674.        King  Arthur's  Waes-hael 

AES-HAEL  for  knight  and  dame ! 

O  merry  be  their  dole ! 
Drink-hael !    in  Jesu's  name 
We  fill  the  tawny  bowl ; 
But  cover  down  the  curving  crest, 
Mould  of  the  Orient  Lady's  breast. 
Waes-hael!    yet  lift  no  lid: 

Drain  ye  the  reeds  for  wine. 
Drink-hael !    the  milk  was  hid 

That  soothed  that  Babe  divine; 
Hush'd,  as  this  hollow  channel  flows, 
He  drew  the  balsam  from  the  rose. 

Waes-hael !    thus  glow'd  the  breast 

Where  a  God  yearn'd  to  cling; 
Drink-hael  !     so  Jesu  press'd 

Life  from  its  mystic  spring ; 
Then  hush  and  bend  in  reverent  sign 
And  breathe  the  thrilling  reeds  for  wine. 
Waes-hael !    in  shadowy  scene 

Lo  !     Christmas  children  we : 
Drink-hael !    behold  we  lean 

At  a  far  Mother's  knee ; 
To  dream  that  thus  her  bosom  smiled, 
And  learn  the  lip  of  Bethlehem's  Child. 


ROBERT  STEPHEN  HAWKER 
67?.     Are  they  not  all  Ministering  Spirits? 

rE  see  them  not — we  cannot  hear 

The  music  of  their  wing — 
Yet  know  we  that  they  sojourn  near, 
The  Angels  of  the  spring ! 

They  glide  along  this  lovely  ground 

When  the  first  violet  grows  ; 
Their  graceful  hands  have  just  unbound 

The  zone  of  yonder  rose. 

I  gather  it  for  thy  dear  breast. 

From  stain  and  shadow  free: 
That  which  an  Angel's  touch  hath    blest 

Is  meet,  my  love,   for  thee ! 

THOMAS  WADE 

676.  The  Half-asleep 

1805-1875 

f~\    FOR  the  mighty  wakening  that  aroused 
^-^     The  old-time  Prophets  to  their  missions  high ; 

And  to  blind  Homer's  inward  sunlike  eye 
Show'd  the  heart's  universe  where  he  caroused 
Radiantly;    the  Fishers  poor  unhoused. 

And  sent  them  forth  to   preach  divinity; 

And  made  our  Milton  his  great  dark  defy, 
To  the  light  of  one  immortal  theme  espoused ! 
But  half  asleep  are  those  now  most  awake ; 

And  save  calm-thoughted  Wordsworth,  we  have  none 
Who  for  eternity  put  time  at  stake. 

And  hold  a  constant  course  as  doth  the  sun : 
We  yield  but  drops  that  no  deep  thirstings  slake ; 

And  feebly  cease  ere  we  have  well  begun. 

787 


FRANCIS  MAHONY 

677.  The  Bells  of  Shandon 

1805-1866 

H  deep  affection, 
And  recollection, 
I  often  think  of 

Those  Shandon  bells, 
Whose  sounds  so  wild  would, 
In  the  days  of  childhood, 
Fling  around  my  cradle 

Their  magic  spells. 
On  this  I  ponder 
Where'er  I  wander, 
And  thus  grow  fonder, 
Sweet  Cork,  of  thee ; 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  River  Lee. 

I've  heard  bells  chiming 
Full  many  a  clime  in, 
Tolling  sublime  in 

Cathedral  shrine, 
While  at  a  glib  rate 
Brass  tongues  would  vibrate — 
But  all  their  music 

Spoke  naught  like  thine; 
For  memory,  dwelling 
On  each  proud  swelling 
Of  the  belfry  knelling 

Its  bold  notes  free, 


FRANCIS  MAHONY 

Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  River  Lee. 

I've  heard  bells  tolling 
Old  Adrian's  Mole  in, 
Their  thunder  rolling 

From  the  Vatican, 
And  cymbals  glorious 
Swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets 

Of  Notre  Dame ; 
But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter 
Than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o'er  the  Tiber, 

Pealing  solemnly — 
O,  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  River  Lee. 

There's  a  bell  in  Moscow, 
While  on  tower  and  kiosk  O  ! 
In  Saint  Sophia 

The  Turkman  gets, 
And  loud  in  air 
Calls  men  to  prayer 
From  the  tapering  summits 

Of  tall  minarets. 
Such  empty  phantom 
I  freely  grant  them ; 
But  there 's  an  anthem 

More  dear  to  me, — 


FRANCIS  MAHONY 

'Tis  the  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  River  Lee. 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 

678.  Rosalind's  Scroll 

1806-1861 

T    LEFT  thee  last,  a  child  at  heart, 
*•      A  woman  scarce  in  years: 
I  come  to  thee,  a  solemn  corpse 
Which  neither  feels  nor  fears. 
I  have  no  breath  to  use  in  sighs ; 
They  laid  the  dead-weights  on  mine  eyes 
To  seal  them  safe  from  tears. 

Look  on  me  with  thine  own  calm  look: 

I  meet  it  calm  as  thou. 
No  look  of  thine  can  change  this  smile, 

Or  break  thy  sinful  vow: 
I  tell  thee  that  my  poor  scorn'd  heart 
Is  of  thine  earth — thine  earth — a  part: 

It  cannot  vex  thee  now. 

I  have  pray'd  for  thee  with  bursting  sob 

When  passion's  course  was  free; 
I  have  pray'd  for  thee  with  silent  lips 

In  the  anguish  none  could  see; 
They  whisper'd  oft,    'She  sleepeth  soft'— 

But  I  only  pray'd  for  thee. 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 

Go  to !    I  pray  for  thee  no  more : 

The  corpse's  tongue  is  still ; 
Its  folded  fingers  point  to  heaven, 

But  point  there  stiff  and  chill: 
No  farther  wrong,  no  farther  woe 
Hath  licence  from  the  sin  below 

Its  tranquil  heart  to  thrill. 

I  charge  thee,  by  the  living's  prayer, 

And  the  dead's  silentness, 
To  wring  from  out  thy  soul  a  cry 

Which  God  shall  hear  and  bless! 
Lest  Heaven's  own  palm  droop  in  my  hand, 
And  pale  among  the  saints  I  stand, 

A  saint  companionless. 


679.  The  'Deserted  Garden 

T    MIND  me  in  the  days  departed, 
*~      How  often  underneath  the  sun 
With  childish   bounds  I  used  to  run 
To  a  garden  long  deserted. 

The  beds  and  walks  were  vanish'd  quite; 
And  wheresoe'er  had  struck  the  spade, 
The  greenest  grasses  Nature  laid, 
To  sanctify  her  right. 

I  call'd  the  place  my  wilderness, 
For  no  one  enter'd  there  but  I. 
The  sheep  look'd  in,  the  grass  to  espy, 
And  pass'd  it  ne'ertheless. 

79' 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 

The  trees  were  interwoven  wild, 
And  spread  their  boughs  enough  about 
To  keep  both  sheep  and  shepherd  out, 
But  not  a  happy  child. 

Adventurous  joy  it  was  for  me ! 
I  crept  beneath  the  boughs,  and  found 
A  circle  smooth  of  mossy  ground 
Beneath  a  poplar-tree. 

Old  garden  rose-trees  hedged  it  in, 
Bedropt  with  roses  waxen-white, 
Well  satisfied  with  dew  and  light, 
And  careless  to  be  seen. 

Long  years  ago,   it  might  befall, 
When  all  the  garden  flowers  were  trim, 
The  grave  old  gardener  prided  him 
On  these  the  most  of  all. 

Some  Lady,   stately  overmuch, 
Here  moving  with  a  silken  noise, 
Has  blush 'd  beside  them  at  the  voice 
That  liken'd  her  to  such. 

Or  these,  to  make  a  diadem, 
She  often  may  have  pluck'd  and  twined; 
Half-smiling  as  it  came  to  mind, 
That  few  would   look  at  them. 

O,  little  thought  that   Lady  proud, 
A  child  would  watch  her  fair  white  rose, 
When  buried  lay  her  whiter  brows, 
And  silk  was  changed  for  shroud! — 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 

Nor  thought  that  gardener  (full  of  scorns 
For  men  unlearn'd  and  simple  phrase) 
A  child  would  bring  it  all  its  praise, 
By  creeping  through  the  thorns ! 

To  me  upon  my  low  moss  seat, 
Though  never  a  dream  the  roses  sent 
Oi  science  or  love's  compliment, 
I  ween  they  smelt  as  sweet. 

It  did  not  move  my  grief  to  see 
The  trace  of  human  step  departed  : 
Because  the  garden  was  deserted, 
The  blither  place  for  me ! 

Friends,   blame  me  not !    a  narrow  ken 
Hath  childhood  'twixt  the  sun  and  sward: 
We  draw  the  moral  afterward — 
We  feel  the  gladness  then. 

And  gladdest  hours  for  me  did  glide 
In  silence  at  the  rose-tree  wall : 
A  thrush  made  gladness  musical 
Upon  the  other  side. 

Nor  he  nor  I   did  e'er  incline 
To  peck  or  pluck  the  blossoms  white: — 
How  should  I   know  but  that  they  might 
Lead  lives  as  glad  as  mine  ? 

To  make  my  hermit-home  complete, 
I  brought  clear  water  from  the  spring 
Praised  in  its  own  low  murmuring, 
And  cresses  glossy  wet. 

793 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 

And  so,   I  thought,  my  likeness  grew 
(Without  the  melancholy  tale) 
To  'gentle  hermit  of  the  dale,* 
And  Angelina  too. 

For  oft  I  read  within  my  nook 
Such  minstrel  stories ;    till  the  breeze 
Made  sounds  poetic  in  the  trees, 
And  then  I  shut  the  book. 

If  I  shut  this  wherein  I  write, 
I  hear  no  more  the  wind  athwart 
Those  trees,  nor  feel  that  childish  heart 
Delighting  in  delight. 

My  childhood  from  my  life  is  parted, 
My  footstep  from  the  moss  which  drew 
Its  fairy  circle  round:    anew 
The  garden  is  deserted. 

Another  thrush  may  there  rehearse 
The  madrigals  which  sweetest  are; 
No  more  for  me  ! — myself  afar 
Do  sing  a  sadder  verse. 

Ah  me  !    ah  me !    when  erst  I   lay 
In  that  child's-nest  so  greenly  wrought. 
I  laugh'd  unto  myself  and  thought, 
'The  time  will  pass  away.' 

And  still  I  laugh'd,  and  did  not  fear 
But  that,  whene'er  was  pass'd  away 
The  childish  time,  some  happier  play 
My  womanhood  would  cheer. 

794 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 

I  knew  the  time  would  pass  away; 
And  yet,  beside  the  rose-tree  wall, 
Dear  God,   how  seldom,   if  at  all, 
Did  I  look  up  to  pray  ! 

The  time  is  past :    and  now  that  grows 
The  cypress  high  among  the  trees, 
And  I  behold  white  sepulchres 

As  well  as  the  white  rose, — 
When  wiser,  meeker  thoughts  are  given, 
And  I  have  learnt  to  lift  my  face, 
Reminded  how  earth's  greenest  place 

The  colour  draws  from  heaven, — 
It  something  saith  for  earthly  pain, 
But  more  for  heavenly  promise  free, 
That  I  who  was,  would  shrink  to  be 

That  happy  child  again. 

680.  Consolation 

A'^L  are  not  taken;    there  are  left  behind 
Living  Beloveds,   tender  looks  to  bring 

And  make  the  daylight  still  a  happy  thing. 
And  tender  voices,   to  make  soft  the  wind : 
But  if  it  were  not  so — if  I  could  find 

No  love  in  all  this  world  for  comforting, 

Nor  any  path  but  hollowly  did  ring 
Where  '  dust  to  dust '  the  love  from  life  disjoin'd ; 
And  if,   before  those  sepulchres  unmoving 

I  stood  alone  (as  some  forsaken  lamb 
Goes  bleating  up  the  moors  in  weary  dearth) 
Crying  'Where  are  ye,   O  my  loved  and  loving?'- 

I  know  a  voice  would  sound,    'Daughter,   I  AM. 
Can  I  suffice  for  Heaven  and  not  for  earth  ? ' 

795 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 

68 1.  Grief 

T    TELL  you,  hopeless  grief  is  passionless; 
•*•     That  only  men  incredulous  of  despair, 

Half-taught  in  anguish,  through  the  midnight  air 
Beat  upward  to  God's  throne  in  loud  access 
Of  shrieking  and  reproach.      Full  desertness 

In  souls  as  countries  lieth  silent-bare 

Under  the  blanching,   vertical  eye-glare 
Of  the  absolute  Heavens.     Deep-hearted  man,   express 
Grief  for  thy  Dead  in  silence  like  to  death — 

Most  like  a  monumental  statue  set 
In  everlasting  watch  and  moveless  woe 
Till  itself  crumble  to  the  dust  beneath. 

Touch  it ;    the  marble  eyelids  are  not  wet : 
If  it  could  weep,   it  could  arise  and  go. 

Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese 

682.  i 

T   THOUGHT  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung 

*      Of  the  sweet  years,  the  dear  and  wish'd-for  years, 

Who  each  one  in  a  gracious  hand  appears 
To  bear  a  gift  for  mortals  old  or  young  : 
And,  as  I  mused  it  in  his  antique  tongue, 

I  saw  in  gradual  vision  through  my  tears 

The  sweet,  sad  years,  the  melancholy  years — 
Those  of  my  own  life,  who  by  turns  had  flung 
A  shadow  across  me.  Straightway  I  was  'ware, 

So  weeping,   how  a  mystic  Shape  did  move 
Behind  me,   and  drew  me  backward  by  the  hair; 

And  a  voice  said  in  mastery,   while  I  strove, 
'Guess  now  who  holds  thee?' — 'Death,'  I  said.     But  there 

The  silver  answer  rang — 'Not  Death,  but  Love.' 
796 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 

683.  ti 

F  JNLIKE  are  we,  unlike,  O  princely  Heart! 
^^       Unlike  our  uses  and  our  destinies. 

Our  ministering  two  angels  look  surprise 
On  one  another,  as  they  strike  athwart 
Their  wings  in  passing.     Thou,  bethink  thee,  art 

A  guest  for  queens  to  social  pageantries, 

With  gages  from  a  hundred  brighter  eyes 
Than  tears  even  can  make  mine,  to  play  thy  part 
Of  chief  musician.     What  hast  thou  to  do 

With  looking  from  the  lattice-lights  at  me — 
A  poor,  tired,  wandering  singer,   singing  through 

The  dark,   and  leaning  up  a  cypress  tree? 
The  chrism  is  on  thine  head — on  mine  the  dew — 

And  Death  must  dig  the  level  where  these  agree. 

684.  Hi 

S~^O  from  me.     Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand 
^-*      Henceforward  in  thy  shadow.     Nevermore 

Alone  upon  the  threshold  of  my  door 
Of  individual  life  I  shall  command 
The  uses  of  my  soul,   nor  lift  my  hand 

Serenely  in  the  sunshine  as  before, 

Without  the  sense  of  that  which  I  forbore— 
Thy  touch  upon  the  palm.     The  widest  land 
Doom  takes  to  part  us,   leaves  thy  heart  in  mine 

With  pulses  that  beat  double.     What  I  do 
And  what  I  dream  include  thee,   as  the  wine 

Must  taste  of  its  own  grapes.     And  when   I   sue 
God  for  myself,   He  hears  that  name  of  thine, 

And  sees  within  my   eyes  the  tears  of  two. 

797 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 


68  f.  iv 

TF  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  naught 
*      Except  for  love's  sake  only.     Do  not  say, 

'  I  love  her  for  her  smile  —  her  look  —  her  way 
Of  speaking  gently,  —  for  a  trick  of  thought 
That  falls  in  well  with  mine,  and  certes  brought 

A  sense  of  pleasant  ease  on  such  a  day'  — 

For  these  things  in  themselves,   Beloved,  may 
Be  changed,  or  change  for  thee  —  and  love,   so  wrought, 
May  be  unwrought  so.     Neither  love  me  for 

Thine  own  dear  pity's  wiping  my  cheeks  dry  : 
A  creature  might  forget  to  weep,  who  bore 

Thy  comfort  long,  and  lose  thy  love  thereby  ! 
But  love  me  for  love's  sake,  that  evermore 

Thou  mayst  love  on,  through  love's  eternity. 

686.  V 


our  two  souls  stand  up  erect  and  strong, 
Face  to  face,  silent,  drawing  nigh  and  nigher, 

Until  the  lengthening  wings  break  into  fire 
At  either  curving  point,  —  what  bitter  wrong 
Can  the  earth  do  us,  that  we  should  not  long 

Be  here  contented  ?     Think  !    In  mounting  higher, 

The  angels  would  press  on  us,  and  aspire 
To  drop  some  golden  orb  of  perfect  song 
Into  our  deep,  dear  silence.      Let  us  stay 

Rather  on  earth,   Beloved  —  where  the  unfit 
Contrarious  moods  of  men  recoil  away 

And  isolate  pure  spirits,  and  permit 
A  place  to  stand  and  love  in  for  a  day, 

With  darkness  and  the  death-hour  rounding  it. 
798 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 
687.          A  Musical  Instrument 

VV7HAT  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan, 

Down  in  the  reeds  by  the  river  ? 
Spreading  ruin  and  scattering  ban, 
Splashing  and  paddling  with  hoofs  of  a  goat, 
And  breaking  the  golden  lilies  afloat 
With  the  dragon-fly  on  the  river. 

He  tore  out  a  reed,  the  great  god  Pan, 
From  the  deep  cool  bed  of  the  river ; 

The  limpid  water  turbidly  ran, 

And  the  broken  lilies  a-dying  lay, 

And  the  dragon-fly  had  fled  away, 
Ere  he  brought  it  out  of  the  river. 

High  on  the  shore  sat  the  great  god  Pan, 

While  turbidly  flow'd  the  river ; 
And  hack'd  and  hew'd  as  a  great  god  can 
With  his  hard  bleak  steel  at  the  patient  reed, 
Till  there  was  not  a  sign  of  the  leaf  indeed 

To  prove  it  fresh  from  the  river. 

He  cut  it  short,  did  the  great  god  Pan 
(How  tall  it  stood  in  the  river  !), 

Then  drew  the  pith,  like  the  heart  of  a  man, 

Steadily  from  the  outside  ring, 

And  notch'd  the  poor  dry  empty  thing 
In  holes,  as  he  sat  by  the  river. 

'This  is  the  way,'  laugh'd  the  great  god  Pan 

(Laugh 'd  while  he  sat  by  the  river), 
'  The  only  way,   since  gods  began 
To  make  sweet  music,  they  could  succeed.' 
Tht-n  dropping  his  mouth  to  a  hole  in  the  reed, 
He  blew  in  power  by  the  river. 

799 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  O  Pan! 

Piercing  sweet  by  the  river! 
Blinding  sweet,   O  great  god  Pan ! 
The  sun  on  the  hill  forgot  to  die, 
And  the  lilies  revived,  and  the  dragon-fly 

Came  back  to  dream  on  the  river. 

Yet  half  a  beast  is  the  great  god  Pan, 
To  laugh  as  he  sits  by  the  river, 

Making  a  poet  out  of  a  man: 

The  true  gods  sigh  for  the  cost  and  pain — 

For  the  reed  which  grows  nevermore  again 
As  a  reed  with  the  reeds  of  the  river. 


FREDERICK  TENNYSON 

688.  The  Holy  TMc 

1807-1898 

""THE  days  are  sad,  it  is  the  Holy  tide: 
•*•       The  Winter  morn  is  short,  the  Night  is  long; 
So  let  the  lifeless  Hours  be  glorified 

With  deathless  thoughts  and  echo'd  in  sweet  song : 
And  through  the  sunset  of  this  purple  cup 

They  will  resume  the  roses  of  their  prime, 
And  the  old  Dead  will  hear  us  and  wake  up, 

Pass  with  dim  smiles  and  make  our  hearts  sublime  ! 

The  days  are  sad,  it  is  the  Holy  tide : 

Be  dusky  mistletoes  and  hollies  strewn, 
Sharp  as  the  spear  that  pierced  His  sacred  side, 

Red  as  the  drops  upon  His  thorny  crown ; 
No  haggard  Passion  and  no  lawless  Mirth 

Fright  off  the  solemn  Muse, — tell  sweet  old  tales, 
Sing  songs  as  we  sit  brooding  o'er  the  hearth, 

Till  the  lamp  nickers,  and  the  memory  fails. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

68 p.  My  Lost  Touth 

1807-1882 

/^\FTEN  I  think  of  the  beautiful   town 
^-^      That  is  seated  by  the  sea ; 
Often  in  thought  go  up  and  down 
The  pleasant  streets  of  that  dear  old  town, 
And  my  youth  comes  back  to  me. 

And  a  verse  of  a  Lapland  song 

Is  haunting  my  memory  still : 

'A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,   long  thoughts.' 

I  can  see  the  shadowy  lines  of  its  trees, 

And  catch,  in  sudden  gleams, 
The  sheen  of  the  far-surrounding  seas, 
And  islands  that  were  the  Hesperides 
Of  all  my  boyish  dreams. 

And  the  burden  of  that  old  song, 
It  murmurs  and  whispers  still : 
'A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,   long  thoughts.' 

I  remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  slips, 

And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free ; 
And  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 

And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song 
Is  singing  and  saying  still : 
'  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts.* 
Dd  801 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

I  remember  the  bulwarks  by  the  shore, 

And  the  fort  upon  the  hill; 
The  sunrise  gun  with  its  hollow  roar, 
The  drum-beat  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  the  bugle  wild  and  shrill. 
And  the  music  of  that  old  song 
Throbs  in  my  memory  still : 
'  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts.' 

I  remember  the  sea-fight  far  away, 
How  it  thunder'd  o'er  the  tide ! 
And  the  dead  sea-captains,  as  they  lay 
In  their  graves  o'erlooking  the  tranquil  bay 
Where  they  in  battle  died. 

And  the  sound  of  that  mournful  song 
Goes  through  me  with  a  thrill : 
'A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,   long  thoughts.' 

I  can  see  the  breezy  dome  of  groves, 
The  shadows  of  Deering's  woods ; 
And  the  friendships  old  and  the  early  loves 
Come  back  with  a  Sabbath  sound,  as  of  doves 
In  quiet  neighbourhoods. 

And  the  verse  of  that  sweet  old  song, 
It  flutters  and  murmurs  still : 
'A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,   long  thoughts.' 

I  remember  the  gleams  and  glooms  that  dart 

Across  the  schoolboy's  brain ; 
The  song  and  the  silence  in  the  heart, 
That  in  part  are  prophecies,  and  in  part 

Are  longings  wild  and  vain. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 

And  the  voice  of  that  fitful  song 
Sings  on,   and  is  never  still : 
'A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,   long  thoughts.' 

There  are  things  of  which  I  may  not  speak ; 

There  are  dreams  that  cannot  die ; 
There  are  thoughts  that  make  the  strong  heart  weak, 
And  bring  a  pallor  into  the  cheek, 
And  a  mist  before  the  eye. 

And  the  words  of  that  fatal  song 
Come  over  me  like  a  chill : 
'  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts.' 

Strange  to  me  now  are  the  forms  I  meet 

When  I  visit  the  dear  old  town; 
But  the  native  air  is  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  trees  that  o'ershadow  each  well-known  street. 
As  they  balance  up  and  down, 
Are  singing  the  beautiful  song, 
Are  sighing  and  whispering  still : 
'  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts.' 

And  Deering's  woods  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  with  joy  that  is  almost  pain 
My  heart  goes  back  to  wander  there, 
And  among  the  dreams  of  the  days  that  were 
I  find  my  lost  youth  again. 

And  the  strange  and  beautiful  song, 
The  groves  are  repeating  it  still : 
'A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,   long  thoughts.' 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

690.  F'esta 

1807-189* 

r\  CHRIST  of  God!    whose  life  and  death 
^-^     Our  own  have  reconciled, 
Most  quietly,   most  tenderly 

Take  home  thy  star-named  child  ! 

Thy  grace  is  in  her  patient  eyes, 

Thy  words  are  on  her  tongue ; 
The  very  silence  round  her  seems 

As  if  the  angels  sung. 

Her  smile  is  as  a  listening  child's 

Who  hears  its  mother's  call ; 
The  lilies  of  Thy  perfect  peace 

About  her  pillow  fall. 

She  leans  from  out  our  clinging  arms 

To  rest  herself  in  Thine ; 
Alone  to  Thee,  dear  Lord,  can  we 

Our  well-beloved  resign. 

O,  less  for  her  than  for  ourselves 

We  bow  our  heads  and  pray ; 
Her  setting  star,  like  Bethlehem's, 

To  Thee  shall  point  the  way  1 


804 


HELEN  SELINA,  LADY  DUFFERIN 

691.  Lament  of  the  Irish  Emigrant 

1807-1867 

T  'M  sittin'  on  the  stile,   Mary, 
Where  we  sat  side  by  side 
On  a  bright  May  mornin'  long  ago, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride; 
The  corn  was  springin*  fresh  and  green, 

And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  high — 
And  the  red  was  on  your  lip,  Mary, 

And  the  love-light  in  your  eye. 

The  place  is  little  changed,  Mary, 

The  day  is  .bright  as  then, 
The  lark's  loud  song  is  in  my  ear, 

And  the  corn  is  green  again ; 
But  I  miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand, 

And  your  breath  warm  on  my  cheek, 
And  I  still  keep  list'ning  for  the  words 

You  never  more  will  speak. 

'Tis  but  a  step  down  yonder  lane, 

And  the  little  church  stands  near, 
The  church  where  we  were  wed,   Mary, 

I  see  the  spire  from  here. 
But  the  graveyard  lies  between,   Mary, 

And  my  step  might  break  your  rest — 
For  I've  laid  you,  darling !    down  to  sleep, 

With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 

805 


LADY  DUFFERIN 

I'm  very  lonely  now,  Mary, 

For  the  poor  make  no  new  friends, 
But,   O,   they  love  the  better  still, 

The  few  our  Father  sends! 
And  you  were  all  /  had,   Mary, 

My  blessin'  and  my  pride : 
There 's  nothin'  left  to  care  for  now, 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died. 


Yours  was  the  good,  brave  heart,  Mary, 

That  still  kept  hoping  on, 
When  the  trust  in  God  had  left  my  soul, 

And  my  arm's  young  strength  was  gone 
There  was  comfort  ever  on  your  lip, 

And  the  kind  look  on  your  brow — 
I  bless  you,  Mary,  for  that  same, 

Though  you  cannot  hear  me  now. 

I  thank  you  for  the  patient  smile 

When  your  heart  was  fit  to  break, 
When  the  hunger  pain  was  gnawin'  there, 

And  you  hid  it,  for  my  sake  ! 
I  bless  you  for  the  pleasant  word, 

When  your  heart  was  sad  and  sore — 
O,  I'm  thankful  you  are  gone,   Mary, 

Where  grief  can't  reach  you  more.1 


I'm  biddin'  you  a  long  farewell, 
My  Mary — kind  and  true  ! 

But  I'll  not  forget  you,  darling ! 
In  the  land  I'm  goin'  to ; 


LADY  DUFFERIN 

They  say    there  's  bread  and  work  for  all, 

And  the  sun  shines  always  there — 
But  I'll  not  forget  old  Ireland, 

Were  it  fifty  times  as   fair  1 

And  often  in  those  grand  old  woods 

I'll  sit,   and  shut  my  eyes, 
And  my  heart  will  travel  back  again 

To  the  place  where  Mary  lies  ; 
And  I'll  think  I  see  the  little  stile 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side: 
And  the  springin'  corn,   and  the  bright  May  morn, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride. 


CAROLINE  ELIZABETH  SARAH  NORTON 

692.  T  do  not  love  Thee 

1808-1876 

T    DO  not  love  thee !  — no  !    I  do  not  love  thee ! 

•*•      And  yet  when  thou  art  absent  I   am  sad; 

And  envy  even  the  bright  blue  sky  above  thee, 
Whose  quiet  stars  may  see  thee  and  be  glad. 

I  do  not  love  thee ! — yet,   I  know  not  why, 
Whate'er  thou  dost  seems  still  well  done,   to  me: 

And  often  in  my  solitude  I   sigh 
That  those  I   do  love  are  not  more  like  thee  ! 

I  do  not  love  thee ! — yet,  when  thou  art  gone, 
I  hate  the  sound  (though  those  who  speak  be  dear) 

Which  breaks  the  lingering  echo  of  the  tone 
Thy  voice  of  music  leaves  upon  my  ear. 


HON.  MRS.  NORTON 

I  do  not  love  thee !  — yet  thy  speaking  eyes, 
With  their  deep,   bright,   and  most  expressive  blue, 

Between  me  and  the  midnight  heaven  arise, 
Oftener  than  any  eyes  I  ever  knew. 

I  know  I  do  not  love  thee !    yet,  alas ! 
Others  will  scarcely  trust  my  candid  heart ; 

And  oft  I  catch  them  smiling  as  they  pass, 
Because  they  see  me  gazing  where  thou  art. 


CHARLES  TENNYSON  TURNER 

6y$.  Letty's  Globe 

1808-1879 
VW'HEN  Letty  had  scarce  pass'd  her  third  glad  year, 

**        And  her  young  artless  words  began  to  flow, 
One  day  we  gave  the  child  a  colour'd  sphere 

Of  the  wide  earth,  that  she  might  mark  and  know, 
By  tint  and  outline,  all  its  sea  and  land. 

She  patted  all  the  world ;    old  empires  peep'd 
Between  her  baby  fingers;    her  soft  hand 

Was  welcome  at  all  frontiers.      How  she  leap'd, 

And  laugh'd  and  prattled  in  her  world-wide  bliss; 
But  when  we  turn'd  her  sweet  unlearned  eye 
On  our  own  isle,   she  raised  a  joyous  cry — 
'  Oh  !    yes,   I  see  it,   Letty's  home  is  there  !  ' 

And  while  she  hid  all   England  with  a  kiss, 
Bright  over  Europe  fell  her  golden  hair. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

69  4.  To  Helen 

1809-1849 

"LJELEN,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 
*•*•      Like  those  Nicean  barks  of  yore 
That  gently,  o'er  a  perfumed  sea. 
The  weary  way-worn  wanderer  bore 
To  his  own  native  shore. 

On  desperate  seas  long  wont  to  roam, 
Thy  hyacinth  hair,   thy  classic   face, 

Thy  Naiad  airs  have  brought  me  home 
To  the  glory  that  was  Greece, 

And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome. 

Lo,   in  yon  brilliant  window-niche 
How  statue-like  I   see  thee  stand, 
The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand, 

Ah !    Psyche,  from  the  regions  which 
Are  holy  land  ! 

Annabel  Lee 

TT  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 
*•      In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee. 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought 

Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 
I  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea : 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love— 

I  and  my  Annabel   Lee, 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

Dd  3  809 


EDGAR  ALLAN  FOE 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  Annabel   Lee, 
So  that  her  high-born  kinsman  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me — 
Yes  !  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  one  night, 

Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel   Lee. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we — 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we — 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee : 

For  the  moon  never  beams  without  bringing  me  dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel   Lee ; 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel   Lee; 
And  so,   all  the  night-tide,   I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling — my  darling — my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  the  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea, 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 


T 


696.  For  Annie 

'HANK  Heaven  !    the  crisis 

The  danger  is  past, 
And  the  lingering  illness 

Is  over  at  last — 
And  the  fever  called   '  Living ' 

Is  conquer' d  at  last. 
Sadly,   I   know 

I  am  shorn  of  my  strength, 
And  no  muscle  I  move 

As  I  lie  at  full  length: 
Br.t  no  matter — I  feel 

I  am  better  at  length. 

And  I  rest  so  composedly 

Now,  in  my  bed, 
That  any  beholder 

Might  fancy  me  dead — 
Might  start  at  beholding  me, 

Thinking  me  dead. 

The  moaning  and  groaning, 
The  sighing  and  sobbing, 

Are  quieted  now, 

With  that  horrible  throbbing 

At  heart — ah,  that  horrible, 
Horrible  throbbing  ! 

The  sickness — the  nausea — • 

The  pitiless  pain — 
Have  ceased,  with  the  fever 

That  madden 'd  my  brain — 
With  the  fever  called   '  Living ' 

That  burn'd  in  my  brain. 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

And  O  !    of  all  tortures 

That  torture  the  worst 
Has  abated — the  terrible 

Torture  of  thirst 
For  the  naphthaline  river 

Of  Passion  accurst — 
I  have  drunk  of  a  water 

That  quenches  all  thirst. 

— Of  a  water  that  flows, 
With  a  lullaby  sound, 

From  a  spring  but  a  very  few 
Feet  under  ground — 

From  a  cavern  not  very  far 
Down  under  ground. 

And  ah !    let  it  never 

Be  foolishly  said 
That  my  room  it  is  gloomy, 

And  narrow  my  bed ; 
For  man  never  slept 

In  a  different  bed — 
And,  to  sleep,  you  must  slumbei 

In  just  such  a  bed. 

My  tantalized  spirit 
Here  blandly  reposes, 

Forgetting,  or  never 
Regretting  its  roses — 

Its  old  agitations 

Of  myrtles  and  roses: 

For  now,   while  so  quietly 

Lying,  it  fancies 
tu 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

A  holier  odour 

About  it,  of  pansies — 
A  rosemary  odour, 

Commingled  with  pansies — 
With  rue  and  the  beautiful 

Puritan  pansies. 

And  so  it  lies  happily, 

Bathing  in  many 
A  dream  of  the  truth 

And  the  beauty  of  Annie — 
Drown'd  in  a  bath 

Of  the  tresses  of  Annie. 

She  tenderly  kiss'd  me, 

She  fondly  caress'd, 
And  then  I  fell  gently 

To  sleep  on  her  breast — 
Deeply  to  sleep 

From  the  heaven  of  her  breast. 

When  the  light  was  extinguish'd, 

She  cover'd  me  warm, 
And  she  pray'd  to  the  angels 

To  keep  me  from  harm — 
To  the  queen  of  the  angels 

To  shield  me  from  harm. 

And  I  lie  so  composedly, 

Now,   in  my  bed 
(Knowing  her  love), 

That  you  fancy  me  dead — 

8.3 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

And  I  rest  so  contentedly, 

Now,  in  my  bed 
(With  her  love  at  my  breast), 

That  you  fancy  me  dead — 
That  you  shudder  to  look  at  me, 

Thinking  me  dead. 

But  my  heart  it  is  brighter 

Than  all  of  the  many 
Stars  in  the  sky, 

For  it  sparkles  with  Annie — 
It  glows  with  the  light 

Of  the  love  of  my  Annie — 
With  the  thought  of  the  light 

Of  the  eyes  of  my  Annie. 


EDWARD  FITZGERALD 

697*  Old  Song 

1809-1883 
"THIS  a  dull  sight 

To  see  the  year  dying, 
When  winter  winds 

Set  the  yellow  wood  sighing: 
Sighing,   O  sighing ! 

When  such  a  time  cometh 

I  do  retire 
Into  an  old  room 
Beside  a  bright  fire: 

O,  pile  a  bright  fire! 
814 


EDWARD  FITZGERALD 

And  there  I  sit 

Reading  old  things, 
Of  knights  and  lorn  damsels, 

While  the  wind  sings — 
O,  drearily  sings ! 

I  never  look  out 

Nor  attend  to  the  bhst ; 
For  all  to  be  seen 

Is  the  leaves  falling  fast: 
Falling,  falling ! 

But  close  at  the  hearth, 

Like  a  cricket,  sit  I, 
Reading  of  summer 

And  chivalry — 
Gallant  chivalry ! 

Then  with  an  old  friend 
I  talk  of  our  youth — 

How  'twas  gladsome,  but  often 
Foolish,   forsooth : 

But  gladsome,  gladsome ! 

Or,  to  get  merry, 

We  sing  some  old  rhyme 
That  made  the  wood  ring  again 

In  summer  time — 
Sweet  summer  time ! 

Then  go  we  smoking, 

Silent  and  snug: 
Naught  passes  between  us, 

Save  a  brown  jug — 
Sometimes  ! 


EDWARD  FITZGERALD 

And  sometimes  a  tear 

Will  rise  in  each  eye, 
Seeing  the  two  old  friends 

So  merrily — 
So  merrily ! 

And  ere  to  bed 

Go  we,  go  we, 
Down  on  the  ashes 

We  kneel  on  the  knee, 
Praying  together  ! 

Thus,  then,  live  I 

Till,  'mid  all  the  gloom, 
By  Heaven!  the  bold  sun 

Is  with  me  in  the  room 
Shining,  shining  ! 

Then  the  clouds  part, 

Swallows  soaring  between ; 
The  spring  is  alive, 

And  the  meadows  are  green  1 

I  jump  up  like  mad, 

Break  the  old  pipe  in  twain, 

And  away  to  the  meadows, 
The  meadows  again ! 

698.  From  Omar  Khayyam 

i 

A     BOOK  of  Verses  underneath  the  Bough, 
•**    A  Jug  of  Wine,  a  Loaf  of  Bread— and  Thou 

Beside  me  singing  in  the  Wilderness — 
O,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enow  1 
816 


EDWARD  FITZGERALD 

Some  for  the  Glories  of  This  World ;    and  some 
Sigh  for  the  Prophet's  Paradise  to  come ; 

Ah,  take  the  Cash,  and  let  the  Credit  go, 
Nor  heed  the  rumble  of  a  distant  Drum ! 

Look  to  the  blowing  Rose  about  us — '  Lo, 
Laughing,'  she  says,    'into  the  world  I  blow, 

At  once  the  silken  tassel  of  my  Purse 
Tear,  and  its  Treasure  on  the  Garden  throw.' 

And  those  who  husbanded  the  Golden  grain 
And  those  who  flung  it  to  the  winds  like  Rain 

Alike  to  no  such  aureate  Earth  are  turn'd 
As,  buried  once,   Men  want  dug  up  again. 


Think,  in  this  batter'd  Caravanserai 

Whose  Portals  are  alternate  Night  and  Day, 

How  Sultan  after  Sultan  with  his  Pomp 
Abode  his  destined  Hour,  and  went  his  way. 

They  say  the  Lion  and  the  Lizard  keep 

The  Courts  where  Jamshyd  gloried  and  drank  deep : 

And  Bahrain,  that  great  Hunter — the  wild  Ass 
Stamps  o'er  his  Head,   but  cannot  break  his  Sleep. 

I  sometimes  think  that  never  blows  so  red 
The  Rose  as  where  some  buried  Caesar  bled ; 

That  every  Hyacinth  the  Garden  wears 
Dropt  in  her  Lap  from  some  once  lovely  Head. 

And  this  reviving  Herb  whose  tender  Green 
Fledges  the  River-Lip  on  which  we  lean — 
Ah,  lean  upon  it  lightly !    for  who  knows 
From  what  once  lovely  Lip  it  springs  unseen  ! 

817 


EDWARD  FITZGERALD 

Ah,  my  Beloved,  fill  the  Cup  that  clears 
TO-DAY  of  past  Regrets  and   Future  Fears : 

To-morrow  ! — Why,  To-morrow   I  may  be 
Myself  with  Yesterday's  Sev'n  thousand  Years. 

For  some  we  loved,  the  loveliest  and  the  best 
That  from  his  Vintage  rolling  Time  hath  prest, 

Have  drunk  their  Cup  a  Round  or  two  before, 
And  one  by  one  crept  silently  to  rest. 

And  we,  that  now  make  merry  in  the  Room 
They  left,  and  Summer  dresses  in  new  bloom, 

Ourselves  must  we  beneath  the  Couch  of  Earth 
Descend — ourselves  to  make  a  Couch — for  whom? 

Ah,  make  the  most  of  what  we  yet  may  spend, 
Before  we  too  into  the  Dust  descend ; 

Dust  unto  Dust,  and  under  Dust  to  lie, 
Sans  Wine,  sans  Song,  sans  Singer,  and — sans   End 


Ah,  with  the  Grape  my  fading   Life  provide, 
And  wash  my  Body  whence  the   Life  has  died, 

And  lay  me,  shrouded  in  the  living  Leaf, 
By  some  not  unfrequented  Garden-side.  .  .  . 

Yon  rising  Moon  that  looks  for  us  again — 
How  oft  hereafter  will  she  wax  and  wane ; 

How  oft  hereafter  rising  look  for  us 
Through  this  same  Garden — and  for  one  in  vain! 

And  when  like  her,   O   Saki,   you  shall  pass 
Among  the  Guests  star-scatter'd  on  the  Grass, 

And  in  your  joyous  errand  reach  the  spot 
Where  I  made  One — turn  down  an  empty  Glass) 


ALFRED  TENNYSON,  LORD  TENNYSON 

699.  Mariana, 

•809-1892 
VV7ITH  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots 

™       Were  thickly  crusted,  one  and  all  : 
The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 

That  held  the  pear  to  the  gable-wall. 
The  broken  sheds  look'd  sad  and  strange: 
Unlifted  was  the  clinking  latch ; 
Weeded  and  worn  the  ancient  thatch 
Upon  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,    '  My  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,'  she  said ; 

She  said,   '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  ! ' 

Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even ; 

Her  tears  fell  ere  the  dews  were  dried; 
She  could  not  look  on  the  sweet  heaven, 

Either  at  morn  or  eventide. 
After  the  flitting  of  the  bats, 

When  thickest  dark  did  trance  the  sky, 
She  drew  her  casement-curtain  by, 
And  glanced  athwart  the  glooming  flats. 
She  only  said,    'The  night  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,'  she  said; 

She  said,   'I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  ' 

Upon  the  middle  of  the  night, 

Waking  she  heard  the  night-fowl  crow: 

The  cock  sung  out  an  hour  ere  light: 
From  the  dark  fen  the  oxen's  low 

819 


LORD  TENNYSON 

Came  to  her:    without  hope  of  change, 
In  sleep  she  seem'd  to  walk  forlorn, 
Till  cold  winds  woke  the  gray-eyed  morn 
About  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,   'The  day  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,'  she  said; 

She  said,   'I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead ! ' 

About  a  stone-cast  from  the  wall 

A  sluice  with  blacken'd  waters  slept, 
And  o'er  it  many,   round  and  small, 
The  cluster'd  marish-mosses  crept. 
Hard  by  a  poplar  shook  alway, 
All  silver-green  with  gnarled  bark : 
For  leagues  no  other  tree  did  mark 
The  level  waste,  the  rounding  gray. 

She  only  said,   'My  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,'  she  said; 

She  said,   'I  am  aweary,  aweary 

I  would  that  I  were  dead ! ' 

And  ever  when  the  moon  was  low, 

And  the  shrill  winds  were  up  and  away. 
In  the  white  curtain,  to  and  fro, 

She  saw  the  gusty  shadow  sway. 
But  when  the  moon  was  very  low, 

And  wild  winds  bound  within  their  cell, 
The  shadow  of  the  poplar  fell 
Upon  her  bed,  across  her  brow. 

She  only  said,   'The  night  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,'  she  said; 
She  said,   '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  ! ' 
8>o 


LORD  TENNYSON 

All  day  within  the  dreamy  house, 

The  doors  upon  their  hinges  creak'd ; 
The  blue  fly  sung  in  the  pane ;    the  mouse 
Behind  the  mouldering  wainscot  shriek'd, 
Or  from  the  crevice  peer'd  about. 
Old  faces  glimmer'd  thro'  the  doors, 
Old  footsteps  trod  the  upper  floors, 
Old  voices  call'd  her  from  without. 

She  only  said,   '  My  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,'  she  said ; 

She  said,   '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead ! ' 

The  sparrow's  chirrup  on  the  roof, 

The  slow  clock  ticking,  and  the  sound 
Which  to  the  wooing  wind  aloof 

The  poplar  made,  did  all  confound 
Her  sense;    but  most  she  loathed  the  hour 
When  the  thick-moted  sunbeam  lay 
Athwart  the  chambers,  and  the  day 
Was  sloping  toward  his  western  bower. 
Then,  said  she,   'I  am  very  dreary, 

He  will  not  come,'  she  said; 

She  wept,   '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

O  God,  that  I  were  dead ! ' 


700.  The  Lady  of  Shalott 

PART  I 

either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky; 
And  thro'  the  field  the  road  runs  by 
To  many-tower'd  Camelot ; 

831 


O1 


LORD  TENNYSON 

And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below, 

The  island  of  Shalott. 

Willows  whiten,   aspens  quiver, 
Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 
Thro'  the  wave  that  runs  for  ever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot. 
Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers, 
Overlook  a  space  of  flowers, 
And  the  silent  isle  imbowers 

The  Lady  of  Shalott 

By  the  margin,  willow- vei I'd, 
Slide  the  heavy  barges  trail'd 
By  slow  horses ;    and  unhail'd 
The  shallop  flitteth  silken-sail'd 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot : 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand  ? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand? 
Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott? 

Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  bailey, 
Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly 
From  the  river  winding  clearly, 

Down  to  tower'd  Camelot : 
And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary, 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy, 
Listening,  whispers  '  'Tis  the  fairy 

Lady  of  Shalott.' 
822 


LOUD  TENNYSON 


PART  II 

There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A  magic  web  with  colours  gay. 
She  has  heard  a  whisper  say, 
A  curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be. 
And   so  she  weaveth  steadily, 
And  little  other  care  hath  she, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  moving  thro'  a  mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year, 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 
There  she  sees  the  highway  near 

Winding  down  to  Camelot: 
There  the  river  eddy  whirls, 
And  there  the  surly  village-churls, 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  market  girls, 

Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad, 
An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad, 
Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad, 
Or  long-hair'd  page  in  crimson  clad, 

Goes  by  to  tower'd  Camelot 
And  sometimes  thro'  the  mirror  blue 
The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two : 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  mirror's  magic  sights, 

823 


LORD  TENNYSON 

For  often  thro'  the  silent  nights 
A  funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights, 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot  : 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead, 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed  ; 
'I  am  half  sick  of  shadows,'  said 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PART  III 

A  bow-shot  from  her  bower-eaves, 
He  rode  between  the  barley-sheaves, 
The  sun  came  dazzling  thro'  the  leaves, 
And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 

Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 
A  red-cross  knight  for  ever   kneel'd 
To  a  lady  in  his  shield, 
That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  bridle  glitter'd  free, 
Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy. 
The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot : 
And  from  his  blazon'd   baldric  slung 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung, 
And  as  he  rode  his  armour  rung, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jewell'd  shone  the  saddle-leather, 
The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burn'd  like  one  burning  flame  together, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 


LORD  TENNYSON 

As  often  thro'  the  purple  night, 
Below  the  starry  clusters  bright, 
Some  bearded  meteor,   trailing  light, 
Moves  over  still  Shalott. 

His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight  glow'd ; 
On  burnish'd  hooves  his  war-horse  trode ; 
From  underneath  his  helmet  flow'd 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode, 

As  he  rode  down  to  CameloU 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
He  flash'd  into  the  crystal  mirror, 
'Tirra  lirra,'  by  the  river 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,   she  left  the  loom, 
She  made  three  paces  thro'  the  room, 
She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom, 
She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume, 

She  look'd  down  to  Camelot. 
Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide ; 
The  mirror  crack'd  from  side  to  side ; 
'  The  curse  is  come  upon  me !  '  cried 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


PART  IV 

In  the  stormy  east-wind  straining, 
The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning, 
The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  complaining, 
Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 

Over  tower'd  Camelot ; 

8*5 


LORD  TENNYSON 

Down  she  came  and  found  a  boat 
Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat, 
And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse — 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance, 
Seeing  all  his  own  mischance — 
With  a  glassy  countenance 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 
And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay ; 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Lying,   robed  in  snowy  white 
That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right — 
The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light — 
Thro'  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot: 
And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among, 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Heard  a  carol,   mournful,   holy, 
Chanted  loudly,   chanted  lowly, 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly, 
And  her  eyes  were  darken'd  wholly, 

Turn'd  to  tower'd  Camelot ; 
For  ere  she  reach'd  upon  the  tide 
The  first  house  by  the  water-side, 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


LORD  TENNYSON 

Under  tower  and  balcony, 

By  garden-wall  and  gallery, 

A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by, 

Dead-pale  between  the  houses  high, 

Silent  into  Camelot. 
Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came, 
Knight  and  burgher,   lord  and  dame, 
And  round  the  prow  they  read  her  name. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Who  is  this  ?    and  what  is  here  ? 
And  in  the  lighted  palace  near 
Died  the  sound  of  royal   cheer ; 
And  they  cross'd  themselves  for  fear. 

All  the  knights  at  Camelot: 
But   Lancelot  mused  a  little  space ; 
He  said,    '  She  has  a  lovely  face ; 
God  in  His  mercy  lend  her  grace, 

The   Lady  of  Shalott.' 


I 


701.  The  Miller's  "Daughter 

T  is  the  miller's  daughter, 

And  she  is  grown  so  dear,   so  dear, 
That  I  would  be  the  jewel 

That  trembles  in  her  ear : 
For  hid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 
I'd  touch  her  neck  so  warm  and  white. 

And  I  would  be  the  girdle 

About  her  dainty  dainty  waist, 

And  her  heart  would  beat  against  me, 
In  sorrow  and  in  rest : 

And  I  should  know  if  it  beat  right, 

I'd  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight. 


LORD  TENNYSON 

And   I  would  be  the  necklace, 
And  all  day  long  to  fall  and  rise 

Upon  her  balmy  bosom, 

With  her  laughter  or  her  sighs : 

And  I  would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 

I  scarce  should  be  unclasp'd  at  night. 

702.         Song  of  the  Lotos-Eaters 

'T'HERE  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer  falls 
*•       Than  petals  from  blown  roses  on  the  grass, 
Or  night-dews  on  still  waters  between  walls 
Of  shadowy  granite,  in  a  gleaming  pass;  . 

Music  that  gentlier  on  the  spirit  lies, 
Than  tired  eyelids  upon  tired  eyes ; 
Music  that  brings  sweet  sleep  down  from  the  blissful  skies. 
Here  are  cool  mosses  deep, 
And  thro'  the  moss  the  ivies  creep, 
And  in  the  stream  the  long-leaved  flowers  weep, 
And  from  the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy  hangs  in  sleep. 

Why  are  we  weigh'd  upon  with  heaviness, 
And  utterly  consumed  with  sharp  distress, 
While  all  things  else  have  rest  from  weariness  ? 
All  things  have  rest :  why  should  we  toil  alone. 
We  only  toil,  who  are  the  first  of  things, 
And  make  perpetual  moan, 
Still  from  one  sorrow  to  another  thrown : 
Nor  ever  fold  our  wings, 
And  cease  from  wanderings, 
Nor  steep  our  brows  in  slumber's  holy  balm  ; 
Nor  barken  what  the  inner  spirit  sings, 
*  There  is  no  joy  but  calm  !  ' — 

Why  should  we  only  toil,  the  roof  and  crown  of  things  \ 
8*8 


LORD  TENNYSON 

Lo  !    in  the  middle  of  the  wood, 

The  folded  leaf  is  woo'd  from  out  the  bud 

With  winds  upon  the  branch,  and  there 

Grows  green  and  broad,   and  takes  no  care, 

Sun-steep'd  at  noon,   and  in  the  moon 

Nightly  dew-fed ;    and  turning  yellow 

Falls,  and  floats  adown  the  air. 

Lo  !    sweeten'd  with  the  summer  light, 

The  full-juiced  apple,   waxing  over-mellow, 

Drops  in  a  silent  autumn  night. 

All  its  allotted  length  of  days, 

The  flower  ripens  in  its  place, 

Ripens  and  fades,  and  falls,  and  hath  no  toil, 

Fast-rooted  in  the  fruitful  soil. 

Hateful  is  the  dark-blue  sky, 

Vaulted  o'er  the  dark-blue  sea. 

Death  is  the  end  of  life ;   ah,   why 

Should  life  all  labour  be? 

Let  us  alone.     Time  driveth  onward  fast, 

And  in  a  little  while  our  lips  are  dumb. 

Let  us  alone.     What  is  it  that  will  last  ? 

All  things  are  taken  from  us,  and  become 

Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadful  Past. 

Let  us  alone.     What  pleasure  can  we  have 

To  war  with  evil  ?     Is  there  any  peace 

In  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  wave  ? 

All  things  have  rest,  and  ripen  toward  the  grave 

In  silence ;   ripen,   fall  and  cease  : 

Give  us  long  rest  or  death,  dark  death,  or  dreamful  ease. 

How  sweet  it  were,   hearing  the  downward  stream, 
With  half-shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 


LORD  TENNYSON 

Falling  asleep  in  a  half-dream  ! 

To  dream  and  dream,  like  yonder  amber  light, 

Which  will  not  leave  the  myrrh-bush  on  the  height; 

To  hear  each  other's  whisper'd  speech  ; 

Eating  the  Lotos  day  by  day, 

To  watch  the  crisping  ripples  on  the  beach, 

And  tender  curving  lines  of  creamy  spray ; 

To  lend  our  hearts  and  spirits  wholly 

To  the  influence  of  mild-minded  melancholy  ; 

To  muse  and  brood  and  live  again  in  memory, 

With  those  old  faces  of  our  infancy 

Heap'd  over  with  a  mound  of  grass, 

Two  handfuls  of  white  dust,  shut  in  an  urn  of  brass ! 

Dear  is  the  memory  of  our  wedded  lives, 
And  dear  the  last  embraces  of  our  wives 
And  their  warm  tears:    but  all   hath  suffer'd  change; 
For  surely  now  our  household  hearths  are   cold : 
Our  sons  inherit  us:   our  looks  are  strange: 
And  we  should  come  like  ghosts  to  trouble  joy. 
Or  else  the  island  princes  over-bold 
Have  eat  our  substance,   and  the  minstrel  sings 
Before  them  of  the  ten  years'  war  in  Troy, 
And  our  great  deeds,   as  half-forgotten  things. 
Is  there  confusion  in  the  little  isle  ? 
Let  what  is  broken  so  remain. 
The  Gods  are  hard  to  reconcile : 
'Tis  hard  to  settle  order  once  again. 
There  is  confusion  worse  than  death, 
Trouble  on  trouble,   pain  on  pain, 
Long  labour  unto  aged  breath, 
Sore  task  to  hearts  worn  out  with  many  wars 
And  eyes  grown  dim  with  gazing  on  the  pilot-stars. 
830 


LORD  TENNYSON 

But,  propt  on  beds  of  amaranth  and  moly, 

How  sweet  (while  warm  airs  lull  us,   blowing  lowly) 

With  half-dropt  eyelids  still, 

Beneath  a  heaven  dark  and  holy, 

To  watch  the  long  bright  river  drawing  slowly 

His  waters  from  the  purple  hill  — 

To  hear  the  dewy  echoes  calling 

From  cave  to  cave  thro'  the  thick-twined  vine — 

To  watch  the  emerald-colour'd  water  falling 

Thro'  many  a  wov'n  acanthus-wreath  divine  ! 

Only  to  hear  and  see  the  far-off  sparkling  brine, 

Only  to  hear  were  sweet,  stretch'd  out  beneath  the  pine. 

The  Lotos  blooms  below  the  barren  peak : 

The   Lotos  blows  by  every  winding  creek : 

All  day  the  wind  breathes  low  with  mellower  tone: 

Thro'  every  hollow  cave  and  alley  lone 

Round  and  round  the  spicy  downs  the  yellow  Lotos-dust  is 

blown. 

We  have  had  enough  of  action,   and  of  motion  we, 
RolPd  to  starboard,  roll'd  to  larboard,  when  the  surge  was 

seething  free, 
Where  the  wallowing  monster  spouted  his  foam-fountains  in 

the  sea. 

Let  us  swear  an  oath,   and  keep  it  with  an  equal  mind, 
In  the  hollow  Lotos-land  to  live  and  lie  reclined 
On  the  hills  like  Gods  together,  careless  of  mankind. 
For  they  lie  beside  their  nectar,   and  the  bolts  are  hurl'd 
Far  below  them  in  the  valleys,  and   the  clouds  are  lightly 

curl'd 

Round  their  golden  houses,  girdled  with  the  gleaming  world  : 
Where  they  smile  in  secret,   looking  over  wasted  lands, 
Blight  and  famine,  plague  and  earthquake,  roaring  deeps  and 

fiery  sands, 

831 


LORD  TENNYSON 

Clanging  fights,  and  flaming  towns,  and  sinking  ships,  and 

praying  hands. 

But  they  smile,  they  find  a  music  centred  in  a  doleful  song 
Steaming  up,  a  lamentation  and  an  ancient  tale  of  wrong, 
Like  a  tale  of  little  meaning  tho'  the  words  are  strong ; 
Chanted  from  an  ill-used  race  of  men  that  cleave  the  soil, 
Sow  the  seed:  and  reap  the  harvest  with  enduring  toil, 
Storing  yearly  little  dues  of  wheat,  and  wine  and  oil ; 
Till  they  perish  and  they  suffer — some,  'tis  whisper'd— down 

in  hell 

Suffer  endless  anguish,   others  in  Elysian  valleys  dwell, 
Resting  weary  limbs  at  last  on  beds  of  asphodel. 
Surely,  surely,   slumber  is  more  sweet  than  toil,   the  shore 
Than  labour  in  the  deep  mid-ocean,  wind  and  wave  and  oar; 
O  rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  we  will  not  wander  more. 


D1 


70  j.  St.  Agnes'  Eve 

,EEP  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 

Are  sparkling  to  the  moon  : 
My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapour  goes : 

May  my  soul  follow  soon ! 
The  shadows  of  the  convent-towers 

Slant  down  the  snowy  sward, 
Still  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 

That  lead  me  to   my  Lord: 
Make  Thou  my  spirit  pure  and  clear 

As  are  the  frosty  skies, 
Or  this  first  snowdrop  of  the  year 

That  in  my  bosom  lies. 

As  these  white  robes  are  soil'd  and  dark, 

To  yonder  shining  ground ; 
83* 


LORD  TENNYSON 

As  this  pale  taper's  earthly  spark, 

To  yonder  argent  round ; 
So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb, 

My  spirit  before  Thee; 
So  in  mine  earthly  house  I  am, 

To  that  I  hope  to  be. 
Break  up  the  heavens,  O   Lord  !    and  far, 

Thro'  all  yon  starlight  keen, 
Draw  me,   thy  bride,   a  glittering  star, 

In  raiment  white  and  clean. 

He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors  ; 

The  flashes  come  and  go  ; 
All  heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors, 

And  strows  her  lights  below, 
And  deepens  on  and  up !    the  gates 

Roll  back,   and  far  within 
For  me  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom  waits, 

To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 
The  sabbaths  of  Eternity, 

One  sabbath  deep  and  wide — 
A  light  upon  the  shining  sea — 

The  Bridegroom  with  his  bride  J 


704.  Blow,  Bugle,  blow 

"THE   splendour  falls  on  castle  walls 
•*•       And  snowy  summits  old  in  story : 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory, 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
Blow,  bugle;    answer,  echoes,   dying,  dying,  dying. 

EC  «33 


LORD  TENNYSON 

O  hark,  O  hear !    how  thin  and  clear, 
And  thinner,  clearer,   farther  going ! 
O  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 

The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing ! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying : 
Blow,  bugle;    answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying, 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river : 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 

And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 
Blow,  bugle,   blow,   set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,   dying,  dying. 


70?.  Summer  Night 

^[  O  W  sleeps  the  crimson  petal,  now  the  white : 
*•          Nor  waves  the  cypress  in  the  palace  walk ; 
Nor  winks  the  gold  fin  in  the  porphyry  font : 
The  firefly  wakens:    waken  thou  with  me. 

Now  droops  the  milk-white  peacock  like  a  ghost. 
And  like  a  ghost  she  glimmers  on  to  me. 

Now  lies  the  Earth  all  Danae  to  the  stars, 
And  all  thy  heart  lies  open  unto  me. 

Now  slides  the  silent  meteor  on,  and  leaves 
A  shining  furrow,  as  thy  thoughts  in  me. 

Now  folds  the  lily  all  her  sweetness  up, 
And  slips  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake: 
So  fold  thyself,   my  dearest,  thou,  and  slip 
Into  my  bosom  and  be  lost  in  me. 
834 


LORD  TENNYSON 


706.  Come  down,  0  Maid 


down,  O  maid,  from  yonder  mountain  height: 
^^     What  pleasure  lives  in  height  (the  shepherd  sang), 
In  height  and  cold,  the  splendour  of  the  hills  ? 
But  cease  to  move  so  near  the  Heavens,  and  cease 
To  glide  a  sunbeam  by  the  blasted  Pine, 
To  sit  a  star  upon  the  sparkling  spire; 
And  come,  for  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come, 
For  Love  is  of  the  valley,   come  thou  down 
And  find  him;    by  the  happy  threshold,   he, 
Or  hand  in  hand  with  Plenty  in  the  maize, 
Or  red  with  spirted  purple  of  the  vats, 
Or  foxlike  in  the  vine  ;    nor  cares  to  walk 
With  Death  and  Morning  on  the  silver  horns, 
Nor  wilt  thou  snare  him  in  the  white  ravine, 
Nor  find  him  dropt  upon  the  firths  of  ice, 
That  huddling  slant  in  furrow-cloven  falls 
To  roll  the  torrent  out  of  dusky  doors  : 
But  follow  ;    let  the  torrent  dance  thee  down 
To  find  him  in  the  valley;    let  the  wild 
Lean-headed  Eagles  yelp  alone,  and  leave 
The  monstrous  ledges  there  to  slope,  and  spill 
Their  thousand  wreaths  of  dangling  water-smoke, 
That  like  a  broken  purpose  waste  in  air  : 
So  waste  not  thou;    but  come;    for  all  the  vales 
Await  thee  ;    azure  pillars  of  the  hearth 
Arise  to  thee;    the  children  call,  and  I 
Thy  shepherd  pipe,  and  sweet  is  every  sound, 
Sweeter  thy  voice,  but  every  sound  is  sweet  ; 
Myriads  of  rivulets  hurrying  thro'  the  lawn, 
The  moan  of  doves  in  immemorial  elms, 
And  murmuring  of  innumerable  bees. 

835 


LORD  TENNYSON 

707.          From  'In  Memoriam' 

(ARTHUR  HENRY  HALLAM,  MDCCCXXXIII) 

i 

"CAIR  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore 
•*•        Sailest  the  placid  ocean-plains 

With  my  lost  Arthur's  loved  remains, 
Spread  thy  full  wings,  and  waft  him  o'er. 

So  draw  him  home  to  those  that  mourn 
In  vain ;    a  favourable  speed 
Ruffle  thy  mirror'd  mast,  and  lead 

Thro'  prosperous  floods  his  holy  urn. 

All  night  no  ruder  air  perplex 

Thy  sliding  keel,  till  Phosphor,  bright 
As  our  pure  love,  thro*  early  light 

Shall  glimmer  on  the  dewy  decks. 

Sphere  all  your  lights  around,  above; 

Sleep,  gentle  heavens,  before  the  prow ; 

Sleep,  gentle  winds,  as  he  sleeps  now, 
My  friend,   the  brother  of  my  love ; 

My  Arthur,  whom  I  shall  not  see 

Till  all  my  widow'd  race  be  run ; 
Dear  as  the  mother  to  the  son, 

More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me. 

ii 
I  hear  the  noise  about  thy  keel; 

I  hear  the  bell  struck  in  the  night; 

I  see  the  cabin-window  bright; 
I  see  the  sailor  at  the  wheel. 


LORD  TENNYSON 

Thou  bring'st  the  sailor  to  his  wife, 

And  travell'd  men  from  foreign  lands; 
And  letters  unto  trembling  hands ; 

And,  thy  dark  freight,  a  vanish'd  life. 

So  bring  him :    we  have  idle  dreams : 
This  look  of  quiet  flatters  thus 
Our  home-bred  fancies :    O  to  us, 

The  fools  of  habit,  sweeter  seems 

To  rest  beneath  the  clover  sod, 

That  takes  the  sunshine  and  the  rains, 
Or  where  the  kneeling  hamlet  drains 

The  chalice  of  the  grapes  of  God ; 

Than  if  with  thee  the  roaring  wells 

Should  gulf  him  fathom-deep  in  brine ; 
And  hands  so  often  clasp'd  in  mine, 

Should  toss  with  tangle  and  with  shells. 


Calm  is  the  morn  without  a  sound, 
Calm  as  to  suit  a  calmer  grief. 
And  only  thro'  the  faded  leaf 

The  chestnut  pattering  to  the  ground: 

Calm  and  deep  peace  on  this  high  wold. 

And  on  these  dews  that  drench  the  furze. 

And  all  the  silvery  gossamers 
That  twinkle  into  green  and  gold: 

Calm  and  still  light  on  yon  great  plain 

That  sweeps  with  all  its  autumn  bowers, 
And  crowded  farms  and  lessening  towers, 

To  mingle  with  the  bounding  main : 

837 


LORD  TENNYSON 

Calm  and  deep  peace  in  this  wide  air, 

These  leaves  that  redden  to  the  fall ; 
And  in  my  heart,  if  calm  at  all, 

If  any  calm,   a  calm  despair: 

Calm  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep, 

And  waves  that  sway  themselves  in  rest, 
And  dead  calm  in  that  noble  breast 

Which  heaves  but  with  the  heaving  deep. 


To-night  the  winds  begin  to  rise 

And  roar  from  yonder  dropping  day  : 
The  last  red  leaf  is  whirl 'd  away, 

The  rooks  are  blown  about  the  skies ; 

The  forest  crack'd,  the  waters  curl'd, 
The  cattle  huddled  on  the  lea; 
And  wildly  dash'd  on  tower  and  tree 

The  sunbeam  strikes  along   the  world  : 

And  but  for  fancies,  which  aver 

That  all  thy  motions  gently  pass 
Athwart  a  plane  of  molten  glass, 

I  scarce  could  brook  the  strain  and  stir 

That  makes  the  barren  branches   loud ; 
And  but  for  fear  it  is  not  so, 
The  wild  unrest  that  lives  in  woe 

Would  dote  and  pore  on  yonder  cloud 

That  rises  upward  always  higher, 

And  onward  drags  a  labouring  breast, 
And  topples  round  the  dreary  west, 

A  looming  bastion  fringed  with  fire. 


LORD  TENNYSON 

v 

Thou  comest,  much  wept  for :    such  a  breeze 
Compell'd  thy  canvas,  and  my  prayer 
Was  as  the  whisper  of  an  air 

To  breathe  thee  over  lonely  seas. 

For  I   in  spirit  saw  thee   move 

Thro'  circles  of  the  bounding  sky, 
Week  after  week :    the  days  go  by : 

Come  quick,  thou  bringest  all   I  love. 

Henceforth,  wherever  thou  mayst  roam 
My  blessing,  like  a  line  of  light, 
Is  on  the  waters  day  and  night, 

And  like  a  beacon  guards  thee  home. 

So  may  whatever  tempest   mars 

Mid-ocean,  spare  thee,   sacred  bark ; 
And  balmy  drops  in  summer  dark 

Slide  from  the  bosom  of  the  stars. 

So  kind  an  office  hath  been  done, 

Such  precious  relics  brought  by  thee ; 
The  dust  of  him  I  shall  not  see 

Till  all  my  widow'd  race  be  run. 

VI 

Now,  sometimes  in  my  sorrow  shut, 
Or  breaking  into  song  by  fits, 
Alone,  alone,   to  where  he  sits. 

The  Shadow  cloak'd  from  head  to  foot, 

Who  keeps  the  keys  of  all  the  creeds, 
I  wander,  often  falling  lame, 
And  looking  back  to  whence  I  came, 

Or  on  to  where  the  pathway  leads ; 

839 


LORD  TENNYSON 

And  crying,  How  changed  from  where  it  ran 
Thro'  lands  where  not  a  leaf  was  dumb; 
But  all  the  lavish  hills  would  hum 

The  murmur  of  a  happy  Pan : 

When  each  by  turns  was  guide  to  each, 
And  Fancy  light  from  Fancy  caught, 
And  Thought  leapt  out  to  wed  with  Thought 

Ere  Thought  could  wed  itself  with  Speech  ; 

And  all  we  met  was  fair  and  good, 

And  all  was  good  that  Time  could  bring, 
And  all  the  secret  of  the  Spring 

Moved  in  the  chambers  of  the  blood ; 

And  many  an  old  philosophy 

On  Argive  heights  divinely  sangy 
And  round  us  all  the  thicket  rang 

To  many  a  flute  of  A  ready. 


How  fares  it  with  the  happy  dead? 

For  here  the  man  is  more  and  more ; 

But  he  forgets  the  days  before 
God  shut  the  doorways  of  his  head. 

The  days  have  vanish 'd,  tone  and  tint, 
And  yet  perhaps  the  hoarding  sense 
Gives  out  at  times  (he  knows  not  whence) 

A  little  flash,   a  mystic  hint; 

And  in  the  long  harmonious  years 

(If  Death  so  taste  Lethean  springs) 
May  some  dim  touch  of  earthly  things 

Surprise  thee  ranging  with  thy  peers. 


LORD  TENNYSON 

If  such  a  dreamy  touch  should  fall, 

O  turn  thee  round,  resolve  the  doubt; 
My  guardian  angel  will  speak  out 

In  that  high  place,  and  tell  thee  all. 

VIII 

The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole 

No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave, 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 

The  likest  God  within  the  soul  ? 

Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 

That  Nature  lends  such  evil  dreams  ? 
So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems, 

So  careless  of  the  single  life  ; 

That  I,   considering  everywhere 

Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds, 
And  rinding  that  of  fifty  seeds 

She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear, 

I  falter  where  I  firmly  trod, 

And  falling  with  my  weight  of  cares 
Upon  the  great  world's  altar-stairs 

That  slope  thro'  darkness  up  to   God, 

I  stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and  grope, 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and  call 
To  what  I  feel  is  Lord  of  all, 

And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 


'  So  careful  of  the  type  ? '    but  no. 

From  scarped  cliff  and  quarried  stone 
She  cries,   '  A  thousand  types  are  gone : 

I  care  for  nothing,  all  shall  go. 

EC  3  841 


LORD  TENNYSON 

Thou  makest  thine  appeal  to  me: 

I  bring  to  life,   I  bring  to  death : 
The  spirit  does  but  mean  the  breath : 

I  know  no  more.'     And  he,  shall  he, 

Man,  her  last  work,  who  seem'd  so  fair, 
Such  splendid  purpose  in  his  eyes, 
Who  roll'd  the  psalm  to  wintry   skies, 

Who  built  him  fanes  of  fruitless  prayer, 

Who  trusted  God  was  love  indeed 
And  love  Creation's  final  law — 
Tho'  Nature,   red  in  tooth  and  claw 

With  ravine,   shriek'd  against  his  creed — 

Who  loved,  who  suffer'd  countless  ills, 
Who  battled  for  the  True,  the  Just, 
Be  blown  about  the  desert  dust, 

Or  seal'd  within  the  iron  hills  ? 

No  more  ?    A  monster  then,  a  dream, 
A  discord.     Dragons  of  the  prime, 
That  tare  each  other  in  their  slime, 

Were  mellow  music  match'd  with  him. 

O  life  as  futile,  then,  as  frail ! 

O  for  thy  voice  to  soothe  and  bless! 

What  hope  of  answer,  or  redress? 
Behind  the  veil,  behind  the  veil. 


Unwatch'd,  the  garden  bough  shall  sway, 
The  tender  blossom  flutter  down ; 
Unloved,   that  beech  will  gather  brown, 

This  maple  burn  itself  away; 

843 


LORD  TENNYSON 

Unloved,  the  sunflower,  shining  fair, 

Ray  round  with  flames  her  disk  of  seed. 
And  many  a  rose-carnation  feed 

With  summer  spice  the  humming  air; 

Unloved,  by  many  a  sandy  bar, 

The  brook  shall  babble  down  the  plain, 
At  noon  or  when  the  lesser  wain 

Is  twisting  round  the  polar  star ; 

Uncared  for,  gird  the  windy  grove, 

And  flood  the  haunts  of  hern  and  crake : 
Or  into  silver  arrows  break 

The  sailing  moon  in  creek  and  cove ; 

Till  from  the  garden  and  the  wild 

A  fresh  association  blow, 

And  year  by  year  the  landscape  grow 
Familiar  to  the  stranger's  child ; 

As  year  by  year  the  labourer  tills 

His  wonted  glebe,  or  lops  the  glades ; 
And  year  by  year  our  memory  fades 

From  all  the  circle  of  the  hills. 


Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow, 
Now  burgeons  every  maze  of  quick 
About  the  flowering  squares,  and  thick 

By  ashen  roots  the  violets  blow. 

Now  rings  the  woodland  loud  and  long, 
The  distance  takes  a  lovelier  hue, 
And  drown'd  in  yonder  living  blue 

The  lark  becomes  a  sightless  song. 


LORD  TENNYSON 

Now  dance  the  lights  on  lawn  and  lea, 
The  flocks  are  whiter  down  the  vale, 
And  milkier  every  milky  sail 

On  winding  stream  or  distant  sea; 

Where  now  the  seamew  pipes,  or  dives 
In  yonder  greening  gleam,  and  fly 
The  happy  birds,  that  change  their  sky 

To  build  and  brood ;    that  live  their  lives 

From  land  to  land;    and  in  my  breast 
Spring  wakens  too ;  and  my  regret 
Becomes  an  April  violet, 

And  buds  and  blossoms  like  the  rest. 


XII 

Love  is  and  was  my  Lord  and  King, 
And  in  his  presence  I  attend 
To  hear  the  tidings  of  my  friend, 

Which  every  hour  his  couriers  bring. 

Love  is  and  was  my  King  and  Lord, 
And  will  be,  tho'  as  yet  I  keep 
Within  his  court  on  earth,  and  sleep 

Encompass'd  by  his  faithful  guard, 

And  hear  at  times  a  sentinel 

Who  moves  about  from  place  to  place, 
And  whispers  to  the  worlds  of  space, 

In  the  deep  night,  that  all  is  well. 


LORD  TENNYSON 
708.  Maud 


into  the  garden,  Maud, 
*     For  the  black  bat,  Night,  has  flown, 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone; 

And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 

For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves, 

And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high, 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she  loves 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky, 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  she  loves, 
To  faint  in  his  light,   and  to  die, 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,   violin,  bassoon  ; 
All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine  stirr'd 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune; 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

I  said  to  the  lily,   'There  is  but  one 

With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone  ? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play.' 
Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 

And  half  to  the  rising  day  ; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

I  said  to  the  rose,   '  The  brief  night  goes 
In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 

845 


LORD  TENNYSON 

O  young  lord-lover,   what  sighs  are  those 

For  one  that  will  never  be  thine  ? 
But  mine,  but  mine,'  so  I  sware  to  the  rose, 

'For  ever  and  ever,   mine.' 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my  blood, 

As  the  music  clash 'd  in  the  hall  ; 
And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood, 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to  the  wood, 

Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all ; 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left  so  sweet 

That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 

In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes, 
To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet 

And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree; 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake, 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea ; 
But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your  sake. 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me ; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sigh'd  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls, 

Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 
In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 

Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one  ; 
Shine  out,   little  head,   sunning  over  with  curls. 

To  the  flowers,   and  be  their  sun. 

846 


LORD  TENNYSON 

There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,   my  dove,   my  dear; 

She  is  coming,   my  life,   my  fate  ; 
The  red  rose  cries,   '  She  is  near,  she  is  near ; 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,    '  She  is  late  ;  ' 
The  larkspur  listens,    '  I  hear,    I  hear  ;  ' 

And  the  lily  whispers,   '  I  wait.' 

She  is  coming,   my  own,  my  sweet ; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed  ; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead ; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 


7 op.  0  that  'twere  possible 

S~\  THAT  'twere  possible 
^"•^     After  long  grief  and  pain 
To  find  the  arms  of  my  true  love 
Round  me  once  again !    .  ,   . 

A  shadow  flits  before  me, 

Not  thou,   but  like  to  thee : 

Ah,  Christ !    that  it  were  possible 

For  one  short  hour  to  see 

The  souls  we  loved,   that  they  might  tell  us 

What  and  where  they  be ! 


RICHARD  MONCKTON  MILNES, 
LORD  HOUGHTON 

7/0.  Shadows 

I809-:8S5 

T^HEY  seem'd,  to  those  who  saw  them  meet, 
*•       The  casual  friends  of  every  day ; 
Her  smile  was  undisturb'd  and  sweet, 
His  courtesy  was  free  and  gay. 

But  yet  if  one  the  other's  name 

In  some  unguarded  moment  heard, 
The  heart  you  thought  so  calm  and  tame 

Would  struggle  like  a  captured  bird: 

And  letters  of  mere  formal  phrase 
Were  blister'd  with  repeated  tears, — 

And  this  was  not  the  work  of  days, 
But  had  gone  on  for  years  and  years  \ 

Alas,  that  love  was  not  too  strong 
For  maiden  shame  and  manly  pride ! 

Alas,  that  they  delay'd  so  long 
The  goal  of  mutual  bliss  beside  ! 

Yet  what  no  chance  could  then  reveal, 

And  neither  would  be  first  to  own, 
Let  fate  and  courage  now  conceal, 

When  truth  could  bring  remorse  alone. 


HENRY  ALFORD 

711.  The  Bride 

1810-1871 

D  ISE,'  said  the  Master,   'come  unto  the  feast.' 
^     She  heard  the  call  and  rose  with  willing  feet ; 

But  thinking  it  not  otherwise  than  meet 
For  such  a  bidding  to  put  on  her  best, 
She  is  gone  from  us  for  a  few  short  hours 

Into  her  bridal  closet,  there  to  wait 

For  the  unfolding  of  the  palace  gate 
That  gives  her  entrance  to  the  blissful  bowers. 
We  have  not  seen  her  yet,  though  we  have  been 

Full  often  to  her  chamber  door,  and  oft 
Have  listen'd  underneath  the  postern  green, 

And  laid  fresh  flowers,  and  whisper'd  short  and  soft. 
But  she  hath  made  no  answer,  and  the  day 
From  the  clear  west  is  fading  fast  away. 

SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON 

712.  Cean  T>ubb  'Dedish 

1810-1886 

PUT  your  head,  darling,  darling,  darling, 
•*•        Your  darling  black  head  my  heart  above; 
O  mouth  of  honey,   with  thyme  for  fragrance, 
Who,  with  heart  in  breast,  could  deny  you  love  ? 

O  many  and  many  a  young  girl  for  me  is  pining, 

Letting  her  locks  of  gold  to  the  cold  wind  free, 
For  me,   the  foremost  of  our  gay  young  fellows; 
But  I'd  leave  a  hundred,  pure  love,   for  thee ! 
7/a.  Cean  dubh  deelish]  darling  black  head. 

849 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON 

Then  put  your  head,  darling,  darling,  darling, 
Your  darling  black  head  my  heart  above ; 

O  mouth  of  honey,  with  thyme  for  fragrance, 

Who,  with  heart  in  breast,  could  deny  you  love? 

7/3.  Cashel  of  Munster 

FROM    THE    IRISH 

I'D   wed  you  without  herds,  without  money  or  rich  array, 
And  I'd  wed  you  on  a  dewy  morn  at  day-dawn  gray ; 
My  bitter  woe  it  is,  love,  that  we  are  not  far  away 
In  Cashel  town,  tho'  the  bare  deal  board  were  our  marriage- 
bed  this  day! 

O  fair  maid,   remember  the  green  hill-side, 
Remember  how  I  hunted  about  the  valleys  wide ; 
Time  now  has  worn  me ;    my  locks  are  turn'd  to  gray ; 
The  year  is  scarce  and  I  am  poor — but  send  me  not,  love, 
away ! 

O  deem  not  my  blood  is  of  base  strain,   my  girl ; 
O  think  not  my  birth  was  as  the  birth  of  a  churl ; 
Marry  me  and  prove  me,   and  say  soon  you  will 
That  noble  blood  is  written  on  my  right  side  still. 

My  purse  holds  no  red  gold,  no  coin  of  the  silver  white; 
No  herds  are  mine  to  drive  through  the  long  twilight ; 
But  the  pretty  girl  that  would  take  me,  all  bare  tho'  I  be 

and  lone, 
O,   I'd  take  her  with  me  kindly  to  the  county  Tyrone ! 

O  my  girl,   I  can  see  'tis  in  trouble  you  are; 
And  O  my  girl,  I  see  'tis  your  people's  reproach  you  bear ! 
— /  am  a  girl  in  trouble  for  his  sake  with  whom  I  fy, 
And,   0,   may  no  other  maiden  know  such  reproach  as  I ! 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON 
7/4.      The  Fair  Hills  of  Ireland 

FROM    THE    IRISH 

A   PLENTEOUS  place  is  Ireland  for  hospitable  cheer, 
Uileacan  dubh  0! 

Where    the   wholesome    fruit    is    bursting    from    the  yellow 
barley  ear; 

Uileacan  dubh  0! 

There  is  honey  in  the  trees  where  her  misty  vales  expand, 
And  her  forest  paths  in  summer  are  by  falling  waters  fann'd, 
There   is   dew  at   high   noontide    there,    and   springs  i'  the 
yellow  sand, 

On  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 

Curl'd  he  is  and  ringleted,   and  plaited  to  the  knee — 

Uileacan  dubh  0  ! 
Each  captain  who  comes  sailing  across  the  Irish  Sea ; 

Uileacan  dubh  0  / 

And  1  will  make  my  journey,  if  life  and  health  but  stand, 
Unto  that  pleasant  country,   that  fresh  and  fragrant  strand, 
And  leave   your  boasted    braveries,   your   wealth  and    high 
command, 

For  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 

Large  and  profitable  are  the  stacks  upon  the  ground, 

Uileacan  dubh  0  ! 
The  butter  and  the  cream  do  wondrously  abound ; 

Uileacan  dubh  0  ! 

The  cresses  on  the  water  and  the  sorrels  are  at  hand, 
And  the  cuckoo 's  calling  daily  his  note  of  music  bland, 
And    the    bold    thrush    sings    so    bravely    his    song    i'    the 
forests  grand, 

On  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 


ROBERT  BROWNING 
7/f.          Song  from  f  Taracelsus  ' 

i 

t_JEAP  cassia,  sandal-buds  and  stripes 
*1      Of  labdanum,  and  aloe-balls, 
Smear'd  with  dull  nard  an  Indian  wipes 
From  out  her  hair  :    such  balsam  falls 
Down  sea-side  mountain  pedestals, 
From  tree-tops  where  tired  winds  are  fair, 
Spent  with  the  vast  and  howling  main, 
To  treasure  half  their  island-gain. 

And  strew  faint  sweetness  from  some  old 

Egyptian's  fine  worm-eaten  shroud 
Which  breaks  to  dust  when  once  unroll'd; 
Or  shredded  perfume,  like  a  cloud 
From  closet  long  to  quiet  vow'd, 
With  moth'd  and  dropping  arras  hung, 
Mouldering  her  lute  and  books  among, 
As  when  a  queen,  long  dead,  was  young. 

7l6.  The  Wanderers 


the  sea  our  galleys  went, 
-      With  cleaving  prows  in  order  brave 
To  a  speeding  wind  and  a  bounding  wave  — 

A  gallant  armament  : 
Each  bark  built  out  of  a  forest-tree 

Left  leafy  and  rough  as  first  it  grew, 
And  nail'd  all  over  the  gaping  sides, 
Within  and  without,  with  black  bull-hides, 
Seethed  in  fat  and  suppled  in  flame, 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

To  bear  the  playful  billows'  game ; 
So,  each  good  ship  was  rude  to  see, 
Rude  and  bare  to  the  outward  view, 

But  each  upbore  a  stately  tent 
Where  cedar  pales  in  scented  row 
Kept  out  the  flakes  of  the  dancing  brine. 
And  an  awning  droop'd  the  mast  below, 
In  fold  on  fold  of  the  purple  fine, 
That  neither  noontide  nor  star-shine 
Nor  moonlight  cold  which  maketh  mad, 

Might  pierce  the  regal  tenement. 
When  the  sun  dawn'd,  O,  gay  and  glad 
We  set  the  sail  and   plied  the  oar ; 
But  when  the  night-wind  blew  like  breath, 
For  joy  of  one  day's  voyage  more, 
We  sang  together  on  the  wide  sea, 
Like  men  at  peace  on  a  peaceful  shore ; 
Each  sail  was  loosed  to  the  wind  so  free, 
Each  helm  made  sure  by  the  twilight  star, 
And  in  a  sleep  as  calm  as  death, 
We,   the  voyagers  from  afar, 

Lay  stretch'd  along,  each  weary  crew 
In  a  circle  round  its  wondrous  tent 
Whence  gleam'd  soft  light  and  curl'd  rich  scent, 

And  with  light  and  perfume,  music  too : 
So  the  stars  wheel'd  round,  and  the  darkness  past, 
And  at  morn  we  started  beside  the  mast, 
And  still  each  ship  was  sailing  fast ! 

Now,  one  morn,  land  appear' d — a  speck 
Dim  trembling  betwixt  sea  and  sky — 
'  Avoid  it,'  cried  our  pilot,   '  check 
The  shout,  restrain  the  eager  eye !  ' 

9S3 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

But  the  heaving  sea  was  black  behind 
For  many  a  night  and  many  a  day, 
And  land,  though  but  a  rock,  drew  nigh ; 
So  we  broke  the  cedar  pales  away, 
Let  the  purple  awning  flap  in  the  wind, 

And  a  statue  bright  was  on  every  deck! 
We  shouted,   every  man  of  us, 
And  steer'd  right  into  the  harbour  thus, 
With  pomp  and  paean  glorious. 

A  hundred  shapes  of  lucid  stone ! 

All  day  we  built  its  shrine  for  each, 
A  shrine  of  rock  for  every  one, 
Nor  paused  till  in  the  westering  sun 

We  sat  together  on  the  beach 
To  sing  because  our  task  was  done; 
When  lo !   what  shouts  and  merry  songs  j 
What  laughter  all  the  distance  stirs! 
A  loaded  raft  with  happy  throngs 
Of  gentle  islanders ! 

'  Our  isles  are  just  at  hand,'  they  cried, 
'  Like  cloudlets  faint  in  even  sleeping ; 
Our  temple-gates  are  open'd  wide, 

Our  olive-groves  thick  shade  are  keeping 
For  these  majestic  forms' — they  cried. 
O,  then  we  awoke  with  sudden  start 
From  our  deep  dream,  and  knew,   too  late, 
How  bare  the  rock,   how  desolate, 
Which  had  received  our  precious  freight: 

Yet  we  call'd  out — '  Depart ! 
Our  gifts,  once  given,   must  here  abide: 

Our  work  is  done;    we  have  no  heart 
To  mar  our  work,' — we  cried. 
854 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


7/7.          Thus  the  Mayne  gtideth 


T^HUS  the  Mayne  glideth 

Where  my  Love  abideth  ; 
Sleep  's  no  softer  :    it  proceeds 
On  through  lawns,  on  through  meads, 
On  and  on,  whate'er  befall, 
Meandering  and  musical, 
Though  the  niggard  pasturage 
Bears  not  on  its  shaven  ledge 
Aught  but  weeds  and  waving  grasses 
To  view  the  river  as  it  passes, 
Save  here  and  there  a  scanty  patch 
Of  primroses  too  faint  to  catch 
A  weary  bee.   .   .   .  And  scarce  it  pushes 
Its  gentle  way  through  strangling  rushes 
Where  the  glossy  kingfisher 
Flutters  when  noon-heats  are  near, 
Glad  the  shelving  banks  to  shun, 
Red  and  steaming  in  the  sun, 
Where  the  shrew-mouse  with  pale  throat 
Burrows,   and  the  speckled  stoat; 
Where  the  quick  sandpipers  flit 
In  and  out  the  marl  and  grit 
That  seems  to  breed  them,   brown  as  they: 
Naught  disturbs  its  quiet  way, 
Save  some  lazy  stork  that  springs, 
Trailing  it  with  legs  and  wings, 
Whom  the  shy  fox  from  the  hill 
Rouses,  creep  he  ne'er  so  still. 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

718.  Tippets  Song 

""THE  year's  at  the  spring, 

And  day 's  at  the  morn ; 
Morning 's  at  seven  ; 
The  hill-side's  dew-pearl'd ; 
The  lark  's  on  the  wing ; 
The  snail 's  on  the  thorn  ; 
God  's  in  His  heaven — 
All 's  right  with  the  world  ! 

71  p.  Tou'll  love  Me  yet 

VOU'LL  love  me  yet! — and  I  can  tarry 
•*•       Your  love's  protracted  growing  : 
June  rear'd  that  bunch  of  flowers  you  cany, 
From  seeds  of  April's  sowing. 

I  plant  a  heartful  now:    some  seed 

At  least  is  sure  to  strike, 
And  yield — what  you'll  not  pluck  indeed, 

Not  love,  but,  may  be,   like. 

You'll  look  at  least  on  love's  remains, 

A  grave  's  one  violet : 
Your  look? — that  pays  a  thousand  pains. 

What 's  death  ?     You'll  love  me  yet ! 

720.  Torphyrtas  Lover 

'T'HE  rain  set  early  in  to-night, 
•*•       The  sullen  wind  was  soon  awake, 
It  tore  the  elm-tops  down  for  spite, 
And  did  its  worst  to  vex  the  lake : 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

I  listen'd  with  heart  fit  to  break. 
When  glided  in  Porphyria;    straight 

She  shut  the  cold  out  and  the  storm, 
And  kneel'd  and  made  the  cheerless  grate 

Blaze  up,  and  all  the  cottage  warm ; 

Which  done,  she  rose,  and  from  her  form 
Withdrew  the  dripping  cloak  and  shawl, 

And  laid  her  soil'd  gloves  by,   untied 
Her  hat  and  let  the  damp  hair  fall, 

And,  last,  she  sat  down  by  my  side 

And  call'd  me.     When  no  voice  replied, 
She  put  my  arm  about  her  waist, 

And  made  her  smooth  white  shoulder  bare. 
And  all  her  yellow  hair  displaced, 

And,   stooping,   made  my  cheek  lie  there, 

And  spread,  o'er  all,  her  yellow  hair, 
Murmuring  how  she  loved  me — she 

Too  weak,  for  all  her  heart's  endeavour, 
To  set  its  struggling  passion  free 

From  pride,  and  vainer  ties  dissever, 

And  give  herself  to  me  for  ever. 
But  passion  sometimes  would  prevail, 

Nor  could  to-night's  gay  feast  restrain 
A  sudden  thought  of  one  so  pale 

For  love  of  her,  and  all  in  vain  : 

So,  she  was  come  through  wind  and  rain. 
Be  sure  I  look'd  up  at  her  eyes 

Happy  and  proud ;    at  last  I  knew 
Porphyria  worshipp'd  me;    surprise 

Made  my  heart  swell,  and  still  it  grew 

While  I  debated  what  to  do. 
That  moment  she  was  mine,  mine,  fair, 

Perfectly  pure  and  good :    I  found 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

A  thing  to  do,  and  all  her  hair 
In  one  long  yellow  string  I  wound 
Three  times  her  little  throat  around, 

And  strangled  her.      No  pain  felt  she; 
I  am  quite  sure  she  felt  no  pain. 

As  a  shut  bud  that  holds  a  bee, 
I  warily  oped  her  lids :  again 
Laugh'd  the  blue  eyes  without  a  stain. 

And  I  untighten'd  next  the  tress 

About  her  neck;    her  cheek  once  more 

Blush'd  bright  beneath  my  burning  kiss : 
I  propp'd  her  head  up  as  before, 
Only,   this  time  my  shoulder  bore 

Her  head,  which  droops  upon  it  still : 
The  smiling  rosy  little  head, 

So  glad  it  has  its  utmost  will, 

That  all  it  scorn'd  at  once  is  fled, 
And  I,  its  love,  am  gain'd  instead  ! 

Porphyria's  love :    she  guess'd  not  how 
Her  darling  one  wish  would  be  heard. 

And  thus  we  sit  together  now, 

And  all  night  long  we  have  not  stirr'd, 
And  yet  God  has  not  said  a  word! 


721.  Song 

^[  AY  but  you,   who  do  not  love  her, 
•*•          Is  she  not  pure  gold,   my  mistress  ? 

Holds  earth  aught — speak  truth — above  her  ? 
Aught  like  this  tress,   see,  and  this  tress, 

And  this  last  fairest  tress  of  all, 

So  fair,  see,  ere  I  let  it  fall? 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

Because,   you  spend  your  lives  in  praising; 

To  praise,   you  search  the  wide  world  over: 
Then  why  not  witness,   calmly  gazing, 

If  earth  holds  aught — speak  truth— above  her  ? 
Above  this  tress,  and  this,   I  touch 
But  cannot  praise,   I  love  so  much  ! 


722.  Earl  Mertoun's  Song 

'"THERE  's  a  woman   like    a    dewdrop,    she  's   so   purer 

than  the  purest; 
And  her  noble  heart 's  the  noblest,  yes,  and  her  sure  faith  's 

the  surest : 
And  her  eyes  are  dark  and  humid,  like  the  depth  on  depth 

of  lustre 
Hid    i'    the    harebell,    while    her   tresses,  sunnier   than    the 

wild-grape  cluster, 
Gush  in  golden- tinted  plenty  down   her  neck's   rose-misted 

marble : 
Then   her   voice's  music  .  .  .  call    it    the   well's    bubbling, 

the  bird's  warble  ! 

And   this   woman   says,    'My   days    were   sunless   and    my 

nights  were  moonless, 
Parch'd   the  pleasant  April  herbage,  and  the  lark's   heart's 

outbreak  tuneless, 
If  you  loved  me  not !  '     And    I    who    (ah,   for    words   of 

flame !)  adore  her, 

Who  am  mad  to  lay  my  spirit  prostrate  palpably  before  her— 
I  may  enter  at  her  portal  soon,  as  now  her  lattice  takes  me, 
And  by  noontide  as  by  midnight  make  her  mine,  as  hers 

she  makes  me! 


r 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

72  J.  fn  a  Gondola 

'HE  moth's  kiss,  first! 

Kiss  me  as  if  you  made  believe 
You  were  not  sure,  this  eve, 
How  my  face,  your  flower,  had  pursed 
Its  petals  up;    so,  here  and  there 
You  brush  it,   till  I  grow  aware 
Who  wants  me,   and  wide  ope  I  burst. 

The  bee's  kiss,  now ! 
Kiss  me  as  if  you  enter'd  gay 
My  heart  at  some  noonday, 
A  bud  that  dares  not  disallow 
The  claim,   so  all  is  render'd  up, 
And  passively  its  shatter'd  cup 
Over  your  head  to  sleep  I  bow. 


724.  Meeting  at  Night 

"THE  gray  sea  and  the  long  black  land ; 

•*•       And  the  yellow  half-moon  large  and  low; 
And  the  startled  little  waves  that  leap 
In  fiery  ringlets  from  their  sleep, 
As  I  gain  the  cove  with  pushing  prow, 
And  quench  its  speed  i'  the  slushy  sand. 

Then  a  mile  of  warm  sea-scented  beach ; 

Three  fields  to  cross  till  a  farm  appears ; 

A  tap  at  the  pane,  the  quick  sharp  scratch 

And  blue  spurt  of  a  lighted  match, 

And  a  voice  less  loud,  thro'  its  joys  and  fears. 

Than  the  two  hearts  beating  each  to  each! 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


72$:  "Parting  at  Morning 

ID  OUND  the  cape  of  a  sudden  came  the  sea, 
•^^   And  the  sun  look'd  over  the  mountain's  rim 
And  straight  was  a  path  of  gold  for  him, 
And  the  need  of  a  world  of  men  for  me. 


726.  The  Lost  Mistress 

ALL  's  over,  then :    does  truth  sound  bitter 
•**•     As  one  at  first  believes  ? 
Hark,   'tis  the  sparrows'  good-night  twitter 
About  your  cottage  eaves ! 

And  the  leaf-buds  on  the  vine  are  woolly, 

I  noticed  that,  to-day  ; 
One  day  more  bursts  them  open  fully 

— You  know  the  red  turns  gray. 

To-morrow  we  meet  the  same  then,   dearest  ? 

May  I  take  your  hand  in  mine  ? 
Mere  friends  are  we, — well,   friends  the  merest 

Keep  much  that  I  resign : 

For  each  glance  of  the  eye  so  bright  and  black, 
Though  I  keep  with  heart's  endeavour, — 

Your  voice,  when  you  wish  the  snowdrops  back, 
Though  it  stay  in  my  soul  for  ever  ! — 

Yet  I  will  but  say  what  mere  friends  say, 

Or  only  a  thought  stronger; 
I  will  hold  your  hand  but  as  long  as  all  may, 

Or  so  very  little  longer ! 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


727.         The  Last  Ride  together 

T    SAID — Then,  dearest,  since  'tis  so, 
•*•      Since  now  at  length  my  fate  I  know, 

Since  nothing  all  my  love  avails, 

Since  all,  my  life  seem'd  meant  for,  fails, 
Since  this  was  written  and  needs  must  be — 

My  whole  heart  rises  up  to  bless 

Your  name  in  pride  and  thankfulness  ! 

Take  back  the  hope  you  gave, — I  claim 

Only  a  memory  of  the  same, 

— And  this  beside,   if  you  will  not  blame ; 
Your  leave  for  one  more  last  ride  with  me. 

My  mistress  bent  that  brow  of  hers, 
Those  deep  dark  eyes  where  pride  demurs 
When  pity  would  be  softening  through, 
Fix'd  me  a  breathing-while  or  two 

With  life  or  death  in  the  balance :    right ! 
The  blood  replenish'd  me  again ; 
My  last  thought  was  at  least  not  vain : 
I  and  my  mistress,   side  by  side 
Shall  be  together,  breathe  and  ride, 
So,  one  day  more  am  I  deified. 

Who  knows  but  the  world  may  end  to-night? 

Hush !    if  you  saw  some  western  cloud 
All  billowy-bosom'd,  over-bow'd 
By  many  benedictions — sun's 
And  moon's  and  evening-star's  at  once — 
And  so,   you,  looking  and  loving  best, 
Conscious  grew,  your  passion  drew 
Cloud,   sunset,  moonrise,   star-shine  too, 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

Down  on  you,  near  and  yet  more  near, 
Till  flesh  must  fade  for  heaven  was  here! — 
Thus  leant  she  and  linger'd — joy  and  fear  I 
Thus  lay  she  a  moment  on  my  breast. 

Then  we  began  to  ride.      My  soul 
Smooth'd  itself  out,  a  long-cramp'd  scroll 
Freshening  and  fluttering  in  the  wind. 
Past  hopes  already  lay  behind. 

What  need  to  strive  with  a  life  awry  ? 
Had  I  said  that,   had  I  done  this, 
So  might  I  gain,   so  might  I  miss. 
Might  she  have  loved  me  ?   just  as  well 
She  might  have  hated,   who  can  tell ! 
Where  had  I  been  now  if  the  worst  befell  ? 

And  here  we  are  riding,    she  and  I. 

Fail  I  alone,   in  words  and  deeds  ? 
Why,  all  men  strive  and  who  succeeds  I 
We  rode  ;    it  seem'd  my  spirit  flew, 
Saw  other  regions,   cities  new, 

As  the  world  rush'd  by  on  either  side. 
I  thought, — All  labour,  yet  no  less 
Bear  up  beneath  their  unsuccess. 
Look  at  the  end  of  work,  contrast 
The  petty  done,  the  undone  vast, 
This  present  of  theirs  with  the  hopeful  past ! 

I  hoped  she  would  love  me ;    here  we  ride. 

What  hand  and  brain  went  ever  pair'd  ? 
What  heart  alike  conceived  and  dared  ? 
What  act  proved  all  its  thought  had  been  ? 
What  will  but  felt  the  fleshly  screen  ? 
We  ride  and  I  see  her  bosom  heave. 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

There  's  many  a  crown  for  who  can  reach. 
Ten  lines,  a  statesman's  life  in  each ! 
The  flag  stuck  on  a  heap  of  bones, 
A  soldier's  doing  !    what  atones  ? 
They  scratch  his  name  on  the  Abbey-stones. 
My  riding  is  better,  by  their  leave. 

What  does  it  all  mean,  poet?     Well, 
Your  brains  beat  into  rhythm,  you  tell 
What  we  felt  only ;    you  express'd 
You  hold  things  beautiful  the  best, 

And  pace  them  in  rhyme  so,   side  by  side. 
Tis  something,  nay  'tis  much :    but  then, 
Have  you  yourself  what's  best  for  men? 
Are  you — poor,  sick,  old  ere  your  time — 
Nearer  one  whit  your  own  sublime 
Than  we  who  never  have  turn'd  a  rhyme  ? 

Sing,  riding  's  a  joy !      For  me,   I  ride. 

And  you,  great  sculptor — so,  you  gare 
A  score  of  years  to  Art,  her  slave, 
And  that 's  your  Venus,  whence  we  turn 
To  yonder  girl  that  fords  the  burn  ! 

You  acquiesce,  and  shall  I  repine  ? 
What,  man  of  music,  you  grown  gray 
With  notes  and  nothing  else  to  say, 
Is  this  your  sole  praise   from  a  friend, 
4  Greatly  his  opera's  strains  intend, 
But  in  music  we  know  how  fashions  end !  ' 

I  gave  my  youth:  but  we  ride,  in  fine. 

Who  knows  what 's  fit  for  us  ?     Had  fate 
Proposed  bliss  here  should  sublimate 
My  being — had  I  sign'd  the  bond — 
Still  one  must  lead  some  life  beyond, 
86* 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

Have  a  bliss  to  die  with,   dim-descried. 
This  foot  once  planted  on  the  goal, 
This  glory-garland  round  my  soul, 
Could  I  descry  such  ?     Try  and  test ! 
I  sink  back  shuddering  from  the  quest. 
Earth  being  so  good,   would  heaven  seem  best  i 

Now,  heaven  and  she  are  beyond  this  ride. 

And  yet— she  has  not  spoke  so  long! 
What  if  heaven  be  that,  fair  and  strong 
At  life's  best,   with  our  eyes  upturn 'd 
Whither  life's  flower  is  first  discern'd, 

We,   fix'd  so,   ever  should  so  abide? 
What  if  we  still  ride  on,  we  two 
With  life  for  ever  old  yet  new, 
Changed  not  in  kind  but  in  degree, 
The  instant  made  eternity, — 
And  heaven  just  prove  that  I  and   she 

Ride,   ride  together,  for  ever  ride  ? 


728.  Misconceptions 


is  a  spray  the  Bird  clung  to, 
Making  it  blossom  with  pleasure, 
Ere  the  high  tree-top  she  sprung  to, 
Fit  for  her  nest  and  her  treasure. 
O,  what  a  hope  beyond  measure 
Was  the  poor  spray's,  which  the  flying  feet  hung  n 
So  to  be  singled  out,   built  in,  and  sung  to  ! 

Ff  8,5. 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

This  is  a  heart  the  Queen  leant  on, 

Thrill'd  in  a  minute  erratic, 
Ere  the  true  bosom  she  bent  on, 
Meet  for  love's  regal  dalmatic. 
O,  what  a  fancy  ecstatic 

Was  the  poor  heart's,  ere  the  wanderer  went  on — 
Love  to  be  saved  for  it,   proffer'd  to,  spent  on ! 


729.     Home-thoughts,  from  Abroad 

Oto  be  in  England 
?      Now  that  April 's  there, 
And  whoever  wakes  in  England 
Sees,   some  morning,   unaware, 
That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brushwood  sheaf 
Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 
While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 
In  England — now  ! 

And  after  April,   when  May  follows, 
And  the  whitethroat  builds,   and  all  the  swallows ! 
Hark,   where  my  blossom'd  pear-tree  in  the  hedge 
Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 
Blossoms  and  dewdrops — at  the  bent  spray's  edge — 
That 's  the  wise  thrush  ;  he  sings  each  song  twice  over, 
Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 
The  first  fine   careless  rapture  ! 

And  though  the  fields  look  rough  with  hoary  dew, 
All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 
The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower 
— Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon-flower  ! 
866 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


730.     Home-thoughts -3  from  the  Sea, 

^T  OBL Y,  nobly  Cape  Saint  Vincent  to  the  North-west 
*•  died  away  ; 

Sunset  ran,  one  glorious  blood-red,  reeking  into  Cadiz  Bay ; 
Bluish  'mid  the  burning  water,  full  in  face  Trafalgar  lay ; 
In  the  dimmest  North-east  distance  dawn'd  Gibraltar  grand 

and  gray; 
'  Here  and    here    did    England  help  me :    how  can   I   help 

England  ? ' — say, 
Whoso    turns    as    I,  this    evening,   turn    to    God    to   praise 

and  pray, 
While  Jove's  planet  rises  yonder,  silent  over  Africa. 


WILLIAM  BELL  SCOTT 

731.  The  Witch's  Ballad 

1812-1890 

OI  hae  come  from  far  away, 
J     From  a  warm  land  far  away, 
A  southern  land  across  the  sea, 
With  sailor-lads  about  the  mast, 
Merry  and  canny,   and  kind  to  me. 

And  I  hae  been  to  yon  town 

To  try  my  luck  in  yon  town  ; 
Nort,  and  Mysie,   Elspie  too. 
Right  braw  we  were  to  pass  the  gate, 
Wi'  gowden  clasps  on  girdles  blue. 

Mysie  smiled  wi'  miminy  mouth, 
Innocent  mouth,   miminy  mouth ; 

.  miminy]  prim,  demure. 

865 


WILLIAM  BELL  SCOTT 

Elspie  wore  a  scarlet  gown, 
Nort's  grey  eyes  were  unco*  gleg. 
My  Castile  comb  was  like  a  crown. 

We  walk'd  abreast  all  up  the  street, 

Into  the  market  up  the  street; 
Our  hair  with  marigolds  was  wound, 
Our  bodices  with  love-knots  laced, 
Our  merchandise  with  tansy  bound. 

Nort  had  chickens,   I  had  cocks, 

Gamesome  cocks,  loud-crowing  cocks ; 
Mysie  ducks,  and  Elspie  drakes, — 
For  a  wee  groat  or  a  pound ; 
We  lost  nae  time  wi'  gives  and  takes. 

— Lost  nae  time,  for  well  we  knew, 
In  our  sleeves  full  well  we  knew, 
When  the  gloaming  came  that  night, 
Duck  nor  drake,  nor  hen  nor  cock 
Would  be  found  by  candle-light. 

And  when  our  chaffering  all  was  done, 

All  was  paid  for,  sold  and  done, 
We  drew  a  glove  on  ilka  hand, 
We  sweetly  curtsied,  each  to  each, 
And  deftly  danced  a  saraband. 

The  market-lassies  look'd  and  laugh'd, 

Left  their  gear,  and  look'd  and  laugh'd; 
They  made  as  they  would  join  the  game, 
But  soon  their  mithers,  wild  and  wud, 
With  whack  and  screech  they  stopp'd  the  same. 

gleg]  bright,  sharp.  wud]  mad. 

868 


WILLIAM  BELL  SCOTT 

Sae  loud  the  tongues  o'  randies  grew, 

The  flytin'  and  the  skirlin'  grew, 
At  all  the  windows  in  the  place, 
Wi'  spoons  or  knives,   wi'  needle  or  awl. 
Was  thrust  out  every  hand  and  face. 

And  down  each  stair  they  throng'd  anon, 

Gentle,   semple,   throng'd  anon ; 
Souter  and  tailor,   frowsy  Nan, 
The  ancient  widow  young  again, 
Simpering  behind  her  fan. 

Without  a  choice,   against  their  will, 
Doited,   dazed,  against  their  will, 
The  market  lassie  and  her  mither, 
The  farmer  and  his  husbandman, 
Hand  in  hand  dance  a'  thegither. 

Slow  at  first,   but  faster  soon, 

Still  increasing,  wild  and  fast, 
Hoods  and  mantles,   hats  and  hose, 
Blindly  dofF'd  and  cast  away, 
Left  them  naked,  heads  and  toes. 

They  would  have  torn  us  limb  from  limb, 

Dainty  limb  from  dainty  limb ; 
But  never  one  of  them  could  win 
Across  the  line  that  I  had  drawn 
With  bleeding  thumb  a-widdershin. 

But  there  was  Jeff  the  provost's  son, 
Jeff  the  provost's  only  son; 

randies]  viragoes.  flytin']  scolding.  skirlin']  shrieking 

souter]  cobbler.  doited]  mazed.  a-widdershin]  the  wrong 

way  of  the  sun :  or  E.  to  W.  through  N. 

869 


WILLIAM  BELL  SCOTT 

There  was  Father  Auld  himsel', 
The  Lombard  frae  the  hostelry, 
And  the  lawyer  Peter  Fell. 

All  goodly  men  we  singled  out, 

Waled  them  well,   and  singled  out, 
And  drew  them  by  the  left  hand  in ; 
Mysie  the  priest,   and  Elspie  won 
The  Lombard,  Nort  the  lawyer  carle, 
I  mysel'  the  provost's  son. 

Then,  with  cantrip  kisses  seven, 

Three  times  round  with  kisses  seven, 
Warp'd  and  woven  there  spun  we 
Arms  and  legs  and  flaming  hair, 
Like  a  whirlwind  on  the  sea. 

Like  a  wind  that  sucks  the  sea, 
Over  and  in  and  on  the  sea, 
Good  sooth  it  was  a  mad  delight; 
And  every  man  of  all  the  four 
Shut  his  eyes  and  laugh'd  outright. 

Laugh'd  as  long  as  they  had  breath, 

Laugh'd  while  they  had  sense  or  breath : 
And  close  about  us  coil'd  a  mist 
Of  gnats  and  midges,  wasps  and  flies, 
Like  the  whirlwind  shaft  it  rist. 

Drawn  up  I  was  right  off  my  feet, 

Into  the  mist  and  off  my  feet; 
And,   dancing  on  each  chimney-top, 
I  saw  a  thousand  darling  imps 
Keeping  time  with  skip  and  hop. 

waled]  chose.  cantrip]  magic. 

870 


WILLIAM  BELL  SCOTT 

And  on  the  provost's  brave  ridge-tile, 

On  the  provost's  grand  ridge-tile, 
The  Blackamoor  first  to  master  me 
I  saw,   I  saw  that  winsome  smile, 
The  mouth  that  did  my  heart  beguile, 
And  spoke  the  great  Word  over  me, 
In  the  land  beyond  the  sea. 

I  call'd  his  name,   I    call'd  aloud, 
Alas !    I  call'd  on  him   aloud ; 
And  then  he  fill'd  his  hand  with  stour, 
And   threw  it  towards  me  in  the  air ; 
My  mouse  flew  out,   I  lost  my  pow'r ! 

My  lusty  strength,  my  power  were  gone ; 

Power  was  gone,   and  all  was  gone. 
He  will  not  let  me  love  him  more  ! 
Of  bell  and  whip  and  horse's  tail 
He  cares  not  if  I   find  a  store. 

But  I  am  proud  if  he  is  fierce ! 

I   am  as  proud  as  he  is  fierce ; 
I'll  turn  about  and  backward  go, 
If  I  meet  again  that   Blackamoor, 
And  he'll  help  us  then,   for  he  shall   know 
I   seek  another  paramour. 

And  we'll  gang  once  more  to  yon  town, 

Wi'  better  luck  to  yon  town  ; 
We'll  walk  in  silk  and  cramoisie, 
And  I   shall  wed  the  provost's  son 
My  lady  of  the  town  I'll  be ! 

stour]  dust.  cramoisie]  crimson. 

871 


WILLIAM  BELL  SCOTT 

For  I  was  born  a  crown'd  king's  child, 

Born  and  nursed  a  king's  child. 
King  o'  a  land  ayont  the  sea, 
Where  the  Blackamoor  kiss'd  me  first, 
And  taught  me  art  and  glamourie. 

Each  one  in  her  wame  shall  hide 

Her  hairy  mouse,  her  wary  mouse, 
Fed  on  madwort  and  agramie, — 
Wear  amber  beads  between  her  breasts, 
And  blind-worm's  skin  about  her  knee. 

The  Lombard  shall  be  Elspie's  man, 

Elspie's  gowden  husband-man ; 
Nort  shall  take  the  lawyer's  hand ; 
The  priest  shall  swear  another  vow : 
We'll  dance  again  the  saraband ! 

AUBREY  DE  VERE 

732.  Serenade  18,4_I902 

COFTLY,  O  midnight  Hours! 

^     Move  softly  o'er  the  bowers 
Where  lies  in  happy  sleep  a  girl  so  fair! 

For  ye  have  power,  men  say, 

Our  hearts  in  sleep  to  sway, 
And  cage  cold  fancies  in  a  moonlight  snare. 

Round  ivory  neck  and  arm 

Enclasp  a  separate  charm ; 
Hang  o'er  her  poised,  but  breathe  nor  sigh  nor  prayer; 

Silently  ye  may  smile, 

But  hold  your  breath  the  while, 
And  let  the  wind  sweep  back  your  cloudy  hair ! 
ayont]  beyond.  glamourie]  wizardry. 

872 


AUBREY  DE  VERB 

Bend  down  your  glittering  urns, 

Ere  yet  the  dawn  returns, 
And  star  with  dew  the  lawn  her  feet  shall  tread; 

Upon  the  air  rain  balm, 

Bid  all  the  woods  be  calm, 
Ambrosial  dreams  with  healthful  slumbers  wed; 

That  so  the  Maiden  may 

With  smiles  your  care  repay, 
When  from  her  couch  she  lifts  her  golden  head; 

Waking  with  earliest  birds, 

Ere  yet  the  misty  herds 
Leave  warm  'mid  the  gray  grass  their  dusky  bed. 


733>  Sorrow 


each  affliction,  whether  light  or  grave, 
God's  messenger  sent  down  to  thee  ;  do  thou 

With  courtesy  receive  him  ;    rise  and  bow  ; 
And,  ere  his  shadow  pass  thy  threshold,   crave 
Permission  first  his  heavenly  feet  to  lave; 

Then  lay  before  him  all  thou  hast;    allow 

No  cloud  of  passion  to  usurp  thy  brow, 
Or  mar  thy  hospitality  ;    no  wave 
Of  mortal  tumult  to  obliterate 

The  soul's  marmoreal  calmness  :    Grief  should  be, 
Like  joy,  majestic,  equable,    sedate; 

Confirming,  cleansing,  raising,  making  free; 
Strong  to  consume  small  troubles;   to  commend 
Great  thoughts,  grave  thoughts,  thoughts  lasting  to  the  end. 


GEORGE  FOX 
734.  The  County  of  Mayo 

FROM    THE    IRISH    OF    THOMAS    LAVELLE          1815-? 

N  the  deck  of  Patrick  Lynch's  boat  I  sat  in  woful  plight, 
Through  my  sighing  all  the  weary  day  and  weeping 

all  the  night; 

Were  it  not  that  full  of  sorrow  from  my  people  forth  I  go, 
By  the  blessed  sun  !  'tis  royally  I'd  sing  thy  praise,  Mayo ! 

When  I  dwelt  at  home  in  plenty,  and  my  gold  did  much 

abound, 
In  the  company  of  fair  young  maids  the  Spanish  ale  went 

round — 
'Tis    a   bitter   change   from   those   gay  days  that   now   I'm 

forced  to  go 
And  must  leave  my  bones  in  Santa  Cruz,  far  from  my  own 

Mayo. 

They    are    alter'd    girls    in    Irrul    now;     'tis   proud  they're 

grown  and  high, 
With  their  hair-bags  and  their  top-knots,  for  I  pass  their 

buckles  by — 

But  it 's  little  now  I  heed  their  airs,  for  God  will  have  it  so, 
That  I  must  depart  for  foreign  lands  and  leave  my  sweet  Mayo. 

'Tis  my  grief  that  Patrick  Loughlin  is  not  Earl  of  Irrul  still, 
And  that  Brian  Duff  no  longer  rules  as  Lord  upon  the  hill : 
And  that  Colonel  Hugh  McGrady  should  be  lying  dead 

and  low, 
And  I  sailing,   sailing  swiftly  from  the  county  of  Mayo. 


EMILY  BRONTE 
73?.  My  Lady's  Grave 

181! 

HTHE  linnet  in  the  rocky  dells, 
•*•       The  moor-lark  in  the  air, 
The  bee  among  the  heather  bells 
That  hide  my  lady  fair  : 

The  wild  deer  browse  above  her  breast; 

The  wild  birds  raise  their  brood  ; 
And  they,  her  smiles  of  love  caress'd, 

Have  left  her  solitude ! 

I  ween  that  when  the  grave's  dark  wall 

Did  first  her  form  retain, 
They  thought  their  hearts  could  ne'er  recall 

The  light  of  joy  again. 

They  thought  the  tide  of  grief  would  flow 
Uncheck'd  through  future  years  ; 

But  where  is  all  their  anguish  now, 
And  where  are  all  their  tears  ? 

Well,  let  them  fight  for  honour's  breath., 

Or  pleasure's  shade  pursue — 
The  dweller  in  the  land  of  death 

Is  changed  and  careless  too. 

And  if  their  eyes  should  watch  and  weep 
Till  sorrow's  source  were  dry, 

She  would  not,  in  her  tranquil  sleep, 
Return  a  single  sigh  ! 

Blow,  west  wind,   by  the  lonely  mound : 
And  murmur,   summer  streams  ! 

There  is  no  need  of  other  sound 
To  soothe  my  lady's  dreams. 

875 


EMILY  BRONTE 
7  3  6.  Remembrance 

/^OLD  in  the  earth — and  the  deep  snow  piled  above  thee, 
^-^      Far,  far  removed,  cold  in  the  dreary  grave ! 
Have  I  forgot,  my  only  Love,  to  love  thee, 
Sever'd  at  last  by  Time's  all-severing  wave  ? 

Now,  when  alone,  do  my  thoughts  no  longer  hover 
Over  the  mountains,  on  that  northern  shore, 

Resting  their  wings  where  heath  and  fern-leaves  cover 
Thy  noble  heart  for  ever,  ever  more  ? 

Cold  in  the  earth — and  fifteen  wild  Decembers 
From  those  brown  hills  have  melted  into  spring: 

Faithful,  indeed,  is  the  spirit  that  remembers 
After  such  years  of  change  and  suffering ! 

Sweet  Love  of  youth,  forgive,  if  I  forget  thee, 
While  the  world's  tide  is  bearing  me  along; 

Other  desires  and  other  hopes  beset  me, 

Hopes  which  obscure,  but  cannot  do  thee  wrong ! 

No  later  light  has  lighten'd  up  my  heaven, 
No  second  morn  has  ever  shone  for  me ; 

All  my  life's  bliss  from  thy  dear  life  was  given, 
All  my  life's  bliss  is  in  the  grave  with  thee. 

But  when  the  days  of  golden  dreams  had  perish'd, 
And  even  Despair  was  powerless  to  destroy; 

Then  did  I  learn  how  existence  could  be  cherish'd, 
Strengthen'd  and  fed  without  the  aid  of  joy. 

Then  did  I  check  the  tears  of  useless  passion — 
Wean'd  my  young  soul  from  yearning  after  thine; 

Sternly  denied  its  burning  wish  to  hasten 
Down  to  that  tomb  already  more  than  mine. 
876 


EMILY  BRONTE 

And,  even  yet,   I  dare  not  let  it  languish, 

Dare  not  indulge  in  memory's  rapturous  pain ; 

Once  drinking  deep  of  that  divinest  anguish, 
How  could  I  seek  the  empty  world  again  ? 


737.  The  Trisoner 

CTILL  let  my  tyrants  Know,  I  am  not  doom'd  to  wear 
^      Year  after  year  in  gloom  and  desolate  despair ; 
A  messenger  of  Hope  comes  every  night  to  me, 
And  offers  for  short  life,   eternal  liberty. 

He  comes  with  Western  winds,  with  evening's  wandering  airs, 
With  that  clear  dusk  of  heaven  that  brings  the  thickest  stars : 
Winds  take  a  pensive  tone,  and  stars  a  tender  fire, 
And  visions  rise,   and  change,  that  kill  me  with  desire. 

Desire  for  nothing  known  in  my  maturer  years, 

When  Joy  grew  mad  with  awe,  at  counting  future  tears : 

When,   if  my  spirit's  sky  was  full  of  flashes  warm, 

I  knew  not  whence  they  came,  from  sun  or  thunder-storm. 

But  first,  a  hush  of  peace — a  soundless  calm  descends ; 
The  struggle  of  distress  and  fierce  impatience  ends. 
Mute  music  soothes  my  breast — unutter'd  harmony 
That  I  could  never  dream,  till   Earth  was  lost  to  me. 

Then  dawns  the  Invisible ;    the  Unseen  its  truth  reveals ; 
My  outward  sense  is  gone,   my  inward  essence  feels ; 
Its  wings  are  almost  free — its  home,  its  harbour  found, 
Measuring  the  gulf,   it  stoops,   and  dares  the  final  bound. 

O  dreadful  is  the  check — intense  the  agony — 
When  the  ear  begins  to  hear,   and   the  eye  begins  to  see  ; 
When  the  pulse  begins  to  throb — the  brain  to  think  again — 
The  soul  to  feel  the  flesh,  and  the  flesh  to  feel  the  chain. 

877 


EMILY  BRONTE 

Yet  I  would  lose  no  sting,   would  wish  no  torture  less; 
The  more  that  anguish  racks,  the  earlier  it  will  bless  ; 
And  robed  in  fires  of  hell,  or  bright  with  heavenly  shine, 
If  it  but  herald  Death,  the  vision  is  divine. 


738.  Last  Lines 

"^  O  coward  soul  is  mine, 

*  ^      No  trembler  in  the  world's  storm-troubled  sphere : 
I  see  Heaven's  glories  shine, 
And  faith  shines  equal,  arming  me  from   fear. 

O  God  within  my  breast, 
Almighty,  ever-present  Deity! 

Life — that  in  me  has  rest, 
As  I — undying  Life — have  power  in  Thee  ! 

Vain  are  the  thousand  creeds 
That  move  men's  hearts :  unutterably  vain  ; 

Worthless  as  wither'd  weeds, 
Or  idlest  froth  amid  the  boundless  main, 

To  waken  doubt  in  one 
Holding  so  fast  by  Thine  infinity ; 

So  surely  anchor'd  on 
The  steadfast  rock  of  immortality. 

With  wide-embracing  love 
Thy  Spirit  animates  eternal  years, 

Pervades  and  broods  above, 
Changes,  sustains,  dissolves,  creates,  and  rears. 

Though  earth  and  man  were  gone, 
And  suns  and  universes  cease  to  be, 

And  Thou  were  left  alone, 
Every  existence  would  exist  in  Thee. 


EMILY  BRONTE 

There  is  not  room  for  Death, 
Nor  atom  that  his  might  could  render  void : 

Thou — Thou  art  Being  and  Breath, 
And  what  Thou  art  may  never  be  destroyed. 


CHARLES  KINGSLEY 

7  3  p.  Airly  Beacon 

18:9-1875 

AIRLY  Beacon,  Airly  Beacon; 
•**•      O  the  pleasant  sight  to  see 
Shires  and  towns  from  Airly  Beacon, 
While  my  love  climb'd  up  to  me  i 

Airly  Beacon,   Airly  Beacon  ; 

O  the  happy  hours  we  lay 
Deep  in  fern  on  Airly  Beacon, 

Courting  through  the  summer's  day  1 

Airly  Beacon,   Airly  Beacon  ; 

O  the  weary  haunt  for  me, 
All  alone  on  Airly  Beacon, 

With  his  baby  on  my  knee! 


740.  The  Sands  of  T)ee 

'  /^   MARY,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 
^-^     And  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee.' 

The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dark  with  foam, 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

8/9 


CHARLES  KINGSLEY 

The  western  tide  crept  up  along  the  sand, 

And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand, 

And  round  and  round  the  sand, 

As  far  as  eye  could  see. 
The  rolling  mist  came  down  and  hid  the  land : 

And  never  home  came  she. 

'O  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair — 

A  tress  of  golden  hair, 

A  drowned  maiden's  hair, 

Above  the  nets  at  sea  ? ' 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair 

Among  the  stakes  of  Dee. 

They  row'd  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam, 

The  cruel  crawling  foam, 

The  cruel  hungry  foam, 

To  her  grave  beside  the  sea. 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle  home, 

Across  the  sands  of  Dee. 


ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH 

747.  Say  not  the  Struggle  Naught  availeth 

1819-1861 

CAY  not  the  struggle  naught  availeth, 
^     The  labour  and  the  wounds  are  vain, 
The  enemy  faints  not,  nor  faileth, 

And  as  things  have  been   they  remain. 

If  hopes  were  dupes,  fears  may  be  liars; 

It  may  be,  in  yon  smoke  conceal'd, 

Your  comrades  chase  e'en  now  the  fliers, 

And,  but  for  you,  possess  the  field. 


ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH 

For  while  the  tired  waves,  vainly  breaking, 
Seem  here  no  painful  inch  to  gain, 

Far  back,  through  creeks  and  inlets  making. 
Comes  silent,   flooding  in,   the  main. 

And  not  by  eastern  windows  only, 

When  daylight  comes,   comes  in  the  light; 

In  front  the  sun  climbs  slow,  how  slowly  ! 
But  westward,  look,  the  land  is  bright! 


WALT  WHITMAN 

742.  The  Imprisoned  Soul 

1819-189* 

AT  the  last,  tenderly, 

•**•     From  the  walls  of  the  powerful,  fortress'd  house, 
From  the  clasp  of  the  knitted  locks— from  the  keep  of  the 

well- closed  doors, 
Let  me  be  wafted. 

Let  me  glide  noiselessly  forth; 

With  the  key  of  softness  unlock  the  locks— with  a  whisper 

Set  ope  the  doors,   O  soul! 

Tenderly  !    be  not  impatient ! 

(Strong  is  your  hold,  O  mortal  flesh! 

Strong  is  your  hold,  O  love!) 

743.  0  Captain!    My  Captain! 

O   CAPTAIN!    my  Captain!    our  fearful  trip  is  done, 
The    ship   has  weather'd  every   rack,    the  prize  we 
sought  is  won, 

The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all  exulting, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and  daring  ; 


WALT  WHITMAN 

But  O  heart !    heart !    heart ! 
O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red! 

Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

O  Captain !    my  Captain !    rise  up  and  hear  the  bells ; 
Rise  up — for  you  the  flag  is  flung — for  you  the  bugle  trills, 
For  you  bouquets  and  ribbon'd  wreaths — for  you  the  shores 

crowding, 

For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces  turning  ; 
Here,  Captain  !    dear  father  ! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head ! 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck 
You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,   his  lips  are  pale  and  still. 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor  will ; 
The  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed  and  done, 
From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  object  won ; 
Exult,  O  shores  !    and  ring,  O  bells ! 
But  I,  with  mournful  tread, 

Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 


JOHN  RUSKIN 

744.          Trust  Thou  Thy  Love 

1819-1900 

'"TRUST  thou  thy  Love :  if  she  be  proud,  is  she  not  sweet? 
1       Trust  thou  thy  Love :  if  she  be  mute,  is  she  not  pure  ? 
Lay  thou  thy  soul  full  in  her  hands,  low  at  her  feet; 
Fail,  Sun  and  Breath  !— yet,  for  thy  peace,  She  shall  endure. 


EEENEZER  JONES 
747.     tfhen  the  fforld  is  burning 

"VW"HEN  the  world  is  burning, 
Fired  within,   yet  turning 

Round  with  face  unscathed ; 
Ere  fierce  flames,  uprushing, 
O'er  all  lands  leap,   crushing, 

Till  earth  fall,  fire-swathed; 
Up  amidst  the  meadows, 
Gently  through  the  shadows, 

Gentle  flames  will  glide, 
Small,  and  blue,  and  golden. 
Though  by  bard  beholden, 
When  in  calm  dreams  folden, — 

Calm  his  dreams  will  bide. 

Where  the  dance  is  sweeping, 
Through  the  greensward  peeping, 

Shall  the  soft  lights  start; 
Laughing  maids,  unstaying, 
Deeming  it  trick-playing, 
High  their  robes  upswaying, 

O'er  the  lights  shall  dart; 
And  the  woodland  haunter 
Shall  not  cease  to  saunter 

When,  far  down  some  glade, 
Of  the  great  world's  burning, 
One  soft  flame  upturning 
Seems,  to  his  discerning, 

Crocus  in  the  shade. 


FREDERICK  LOCKER-LAMPSON 

746.  At  Her  Window 

1831-1895 

IDEATING  Heart!    we  come  again 
*~^     Where  my  Love  reposes : 
This  is  Mabel's  window-pane ; 
These  are  Mabel's  roses. 

Is  she  nested?     Does  she  kneel 

In  the  twilight  stilly, 
Lily  clad  from  throat  to  heel, 

She,  my  virgin  Lily? 

Soon  the  wan,  the  wistful  stars, 

Fading,  will  forsake  her; 
Elves  of  light,  on  beamy  bars, 

Whisper  then,  and  wake  her. 

Let  this  friendly  pebble  plead 

At  her  flowery  grating  ; 
If  she  hear  me  will  she  heed? 

Mabel,   I  am  waiting. 

Mabel  will  be  deck'd  anon, 

Zoned  in  bride's  apparel ; 
Happy  zone!    O  hark  to  yon 

Passion-shaken  carol ! 

Sing  thy  song,  thou  tranced  thrush, 

Pipe  thy  best,   thy  clearest; — 
Hush,  her  lattice  moves,  O  hush — 

Dearest  Mabel! — dearest  .  .  . 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 
747.        The  Forsaken  Merman 


,  dear  children,  let  us  away; 
-^      Down  and  away  below. 
Now  my  brothers  call  from  the  bay; 
Now  the  great  winds  shoreward  blow; 
Now  the  salt  tides  seaward  flow; 
Now  the  wild  white  horses  play, 
Champ  and  chafe  and  toss  in  the  spray. 
Children  dear,   let  us  away. 
This  way,  this  way  ! 

Call  her  once  before  you  go. 

Call  once  yet. 
In  a  voice  that  she  will  know  : 

'  Margaret  !     Margaret  !  ' 
Children's  voices  should  be  dear 
(Call  once  more)  to  a  mother's  ear; 
Children's  voices,   wild  with  pain. 
Surely  she  will  come  again. 
Call  her  once  and  come  away. 

This  way,  this  way  ! 
'Mother  dear,   we  cannot  stay.' 
The  wild  white  horses  foam  and  fret. 

Margaret  !     Margaret  ! 

Come,  dear  children,   come  away  down. 

Call  no  more. 

One  last  look  at  the  white-wall'd  town, 
And  the  little  grey  church  on  the  windy  shore. 

Then  come  down. 

She  will  not  come  though  you  call  all  day. 
Come  away,   come  away. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

Children  dear,   was  it  yesterday 
We  heard  the  sweet  bells  over  the  bay? 
In  the  caverns  where  we  lay, 
Through  the  surf  and  through  the  swell, 
The  far-off  sound  of  a  silver  bell  ? 
Sand-strewn  caverns,  cool  and  deep, 
Where  the  winds  are  all  asleep; 
Where  the  spent  lights  quiver  and  gleam ; 
Where  -che  salt  weed  sways  in  the  stream ; 
Where  the  sea-beasts,   ranged  all  round, 
Feed  in  the  ooze  of  their  pasture-ground ; 
Where  the  sea-snakes  coil  and  twine, 
Dry  their  mail,   and  bask  in  the  brine ; 
Where  great  whales  come  sailing  by, 
Sail  and  sail,  with  unshut  eye, 
Round  the  world  for  ever  and  aye  ? 
When  did  music  come  this  way  ? 
Children  dear,   was  it  yesterday  ? 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday 

(Call  yet  once)  that  she  went  away  ? 

Once  she  sate  with  you  and  me, 
On  a  red  gold  throne  in  the  heart  of  the  sea, 

And  the  youngest  sate  on  her  knee. 
She  comb'd  its  bright  hair,  and  she  tended  it  well, 
When  down  swung  the  sound  of  the  far-off  bell. 
She  sigh'd,   she  look'd  up  through  the  clear  green  sea. 
She  said,    'I  must  go,  for  my  kinsfolk  pray 
In  the  little  grey  church  on  the  shore  to-day. 
'Twill  be  Easter-time  in  the  world — ah  me ! 
And  I  lose  my  poor  soul,  Merman,  here  with  thee.' 
I  said,   '  Go  up,  dear  heart,  through  the  waves. 
Say  thy  prayer,  and  come  back  to  the  kind  sea-caves.' 
886 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

She  smiled,  she  went  up  through  the  surf  in  the  bay 
Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday  ? 

Children  dear,  were  we  long  alone  ? 
'The  sea  grows  stormy,  the  little  ones  moan. 
Long  prayers,'  I  said,   'in  the  world  they  say. 
Come,'  I  said,  and  we  rose  through  the  surf  in  the  bay. 
We  went  up  the  beach,  by  the  sandy  down 
Where  the  sea-stocks  bloom,   to  the  white-wall'd  town. 
Through  the  narrow  paved  streets,   where  all  was  still, 
To  the  little  grey  church  on  the  windy  hill. 
From  the  church  came  a  murmur  of  folk  at  their  prayers, 
But  we  stood  without  in  the  cold-blowing  airs. 
We  climb'd  on  the  graves,  on  the  stones  worn  with  rains. 
And  we  gazed  up  the  aisle  through  the  small  leaded  panes. 

She  sate  by  the  pillar;    we  saw  her  clear: 

'  Margaret,   hist !    come  quick,   we  are  here. 

Dear  heart,'  I  said,    'we  are  long  alone. 

The  sea  grows  stormy,  the  little  ones  moan.' 
But,  ah  1    she  gave  me  never  a  look, 
For  her  eyes  were  seal'd  to  the  holy  book. 
Loud  prays  the  priest ;    shut  stands  the  door. 

Come  away,  children,  call  no  more. 

Come  away,   come  down,  call  no  more. 

Down,   down,   down ; 

Down  to  the  depths  of  the  sea. 
She  sits  at  her  wheel  in  the  humming  town, 

Singing  most  joyfully. 
Hark  what  she  sings :    '  O  joy,   O  joy, 
For  the  humming  street,  and  the  child  with  its  toy. 
For  the  priest,  and  the  bell,  and  the  holy  well. 

For  the  wheel  where  I  spun, 

And  the  blessed  light  of  the  sun.' 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

And  so  she  sings  her  fill, 

Singing  most  joyfully, 

Till  the  shuttle  falls  from  her  hand, 

And  the  whizzing  wheel  stands  still. 
She  steals  to  the  window,  and  looks  at  the  sand-, 

And  over  the  sand  at  the  sea; 

And  her  eyes  are  set  in  a  stare; 

And  anon  there  breaks  a  sigh, 

And  anon  there  drops  a  tear, 

From  a  sorrow-clouded  eye, 

And  a  heart  sorrow-laden, 

A  long,   long  sigh 
For  the  cold  strange  eyes  of  a  little  Mermaiden, 

And  the  gleam  of  her  golden  hair. 

Come  away,  away,  children. 
Come  children,  come  down. 
The  hoarse  wind  blows  colder; 
Lights  shine  in  the  town. 
She  will  start  from  her  slumber 
When  gusts  shake  the  door; 
She  will  hear  the  winds  howling, 
Will  hear  the  waves   roar. 
We  shall  see,  while  above  us 
The  waves  roar  and  whirl, 
A  ceiling  of  amber, 
A  pavement  of  pearl. 
Singing,    '  Here  came  a  mortal, 
But  faithless  was  she : 
And  alone  dwell  for  ever 
The  kings  of  the  sea.' 

But,  children,  at  midnight, 
When  soft  the  winds  blow ; 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

When  clear  falls  the  moonlight; 
When  spring-tides  are  low : 
When  sweet  airs  come  seaward 
From  heaths   starr'd  with  broom; 
And  high  rocks  throw  mildly 
On  the  blanch'd  sands  a  gloom: 
Up  the  still,   glistening  beaches, 
Up  the  creeks  we  will  hie; 
Over  banks  of  bright  seaweed 
The  ebb-tide  leaves  dry. 
We  will  gaze,   from  the  sand-hills, 
At  the  white,   sleeping  town ; 
At  the  church  on  the  hill-side — 

And  then  come  back  down. 
Singing,   'There  dwells  a  loved  one, 

But  cruel  is  she. 
She  left  lonely  for  ever 

The  kings  of  the  sea.' 

748.  The  Song  of  Call  ides 

HTHROUGH  the  black,  rushing  smoke-bursts, 
*•       Thick  breaks  the  red  flame. 
All   Etna  heaves  fiercely 
Her  forest-clothed  frame. 

Not  here,   O  Apollo  I 

Are  haunts  meet  for  thee. 

But,   where  Helicon  breaks  down 

In  cliff  to  the  sea. 

Where  the  moon-silver'd  inlets 

Send  far  their  light  voice 

Up  the  still  vale  of  Thisbe, 

O  speed,  and  rejoice  1 

889 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

On  the  sward  at  the  cliff-top, 
Lie  strewn  the  white  flocks; 
On  the  cliff-side,  the  pigeons 
Roost  deep  in  the  rocks. 

In  the  moonlight  the  shepherds, 
Soft  lull'd  by  the  rills, 
Lie  wrapt  in  their  blankets, 
Asleep  on  the  hills. 

— What  forms  are  these  coming 
So  white  through  the  gloom  ? 
What  garments  out-glistening 
The  gold-flower'd  broom  ? 

What  sweet-breathing  Presence 
Out-perfumes  the  thyme? 
What  voices  enrapture 
The  night's  balmy  prime? — 

'Tis  Apollo  comes  leading 
His  choir,   The  Nine. 
— The  Leader  is  fairest, 
But  all  are  divine. 

They  are  lost  in  the  hollows. 
They  stream  up  again. 
What  seeks  on  this  mountain 
The  glorified  train  ? — 

They  bathe  on  this  mountain 
In  the  spring  by  their  road. 
Then  on  to  Olympus, 
Their  endless  abode. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

— Whose  praise  do  they  mention : 
Of  what  is  it  told  ? — 
What  will  be  for  ever. 
What  was  from  of  old. 

First  hymn  they  the  Father 
Of  all  things:    and  then, 
The  rest  of  Immortals, 
The  action  of  men. 

The  Day  in  his  hotness, 
The  strife  with  the  palm; 
The  Night  in  her  silence, 
The  Stars  in  their  calm. 


To  Marguerite 

VES :    in  the  sea  of  life  enisled, 
•*•       With  echoing  straits  between  us  thrown. 
Dotting  the  shoreless  watery  wild, 

We  mortal  millions  live  alone. 
The  islands  feel  the  enclasping  flow, 
And  then  their  endless  bounds  they  know. 

But  when  the  moon  their  hollows  lights, 
And  they  are  swept  by  balms  of  spring, 

And  in  their  glens,  on  starry  nights, 
The  nightingales  divinely  sing; 

And  lovely  notes,   from  shore  to  shore, 

Across  the  sounds  and  channels  pour; 

O   then  a  longing  like  despair 
Is  to  their  farthest  caverns  sent ! 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

For  surely  once,  they  feel,  we  were 

Parts  of  a  single  continent. 
Now  round  us  spreads  the  watery  plain — 
O  might  our  marges  meet  again ! 

Who  order'd  that  their  longing's  fire 
Should  be,  as  soon  as  kindled,   cool'd  r 

Who  renders  vain  their  deep  desire? — 
A  God,  a  God  their  severance  ruled ; 

And  bade  betwixt  their  shores  to  be 

The  unplumb'd,   salt,  estranging  sea. 


7?o.  Rejuiescat 

CTREW  on  her  roses,  roses, 
^      And  never  a  spray  of  yew. 
In  quiet  she  reposes ; 

Ah!    would  that  I  did  too. 

Her  mirth  the  world  required  : 
She  bathed  it  in  smiles  of  glee. 

But  her  heart  was  tired,  tired, 
And  now  they  let  her  be. 

Her  life  was  turning,  turning, 
In  mazes  of  heat  and  sound. 

But  for  peace  her  soul  was  yearning, 
And  now  peace  laps  her  round. 

Her  cabin'd,  ample  Spirit, 

It  flutter'd  and  fail'd  for  breath. 

To-night  it  doth  inherit 
The  vasty  hall  of  Death. 

892 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 
751.  The  Scholar-Gipsy 

"*  O,   for  they  call  you,   Shepherd,  from  the  hill ; 
-*     Go,   Shepherd,  and  untie  the  wattled  cotes : 

No  longer  leave  thy  wistful  flock  unfed, 
Nor  let  thy  bawling  fellows  rack  their  throats, 

Nor  the  cropp'd  grasses  shoot  another  head. 

But  when  the  fields  are  still, 
And  the  tired  men  and  dogs  all  gone  to  rest, 

And  only  the  white  sheep  are  sometimes  seen 

Cross  and  recross  the  strips  of  moon-blanch'd   green 
Come,   Shepherd,   and  again  begin  the  quest. 

rlere,   where  the  reaper  was  at  work  of  late, 
In  this  high  field's  dark  corner,  where  he  leaves 

His  coat,  his  basket,  and  his  earthen  cruise, 
And  in  the  sun  all  morning  binds  the  sheaves, 

Then  here,  at  noon,  comes  back  his  stores  to  use ; 

Here  will  I  sit   and   wait, 
While  to  my  ear  from  uplands  far  away 

The  bleating  of  the  folded  flocks  is  borne, 

With  distant  cries  of  reapers  in  the  corn — 
All  the  live  murmur  of  a  summer's  day. 

Screen'd  is  this  nook  o'er  the  high,  half-reap'd   field, 
And  here  till  sundown,   Shepherd,  will  I  be. 

Through  the  thick  corn  the  scarlet  poppies  peep, 
And  round  green  roots  and  yellowing  stalks  I  see 
Pale  blue  convolvulus  in  tendrils  creep: 

And  air-swept  lindens  yield 

Their  scent,  and  rustle  down  their  perfumed  showers 
Of  bloom  on  the  bent  grass  where  I  am  laid, 
And  bower  me  from  the  August  sun  with  shade; 
And  the  eye  travels  down  to  Oxford's  towers  : 

893 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

And  near  me  on  the  grass  lies  Glanvil's  book — 
Come,   let  me  read  the  oft-read  tale  again  : 

The  story  of  that  Oxford  scholar  poor, 
Of  pregnant  parts  and  quick  inventive  brain, 

Who,  tired  of  knocking  at  Preferment's  door, 

One  summer  morn  forsook 
His  friends,  and  went  to  learn  the  Gipsy  lore, 

And  roam'd  the  world  with  that  wild  brotherhood, 

And  came,  as  most  men  deem'd,  to  little  good, 
But  came  to  Oxford  and  his  friends  no  more. 


But  once,  years  after,  in  the  country  lanes, 
Two  scholars,  whom  at  college  erst  he  knew, 

Met  him,  and  of  his  way  of  life  inquired. 
Whereat  he  answer'd  that  the  Gipsy  crew, 

His  mates,  had  arts  to  rule  as  they  desired 

The  workings  of  men's  brains ; 
And  they  can  bind  them  to  what  thoughts  they  will : 

'  And  I,'  he  said,   '  the  secret  of  their  art, 

When  fully  learn'd,   will  to  the  world  impart : 
But  it  needs  Heaven-sent  moments  for  this  skill !  ' 


This  said,  he  left  them,  and  return'd  no  more, 
But  rumours  hung  about  the  country-side, 

That  the  lost  Scholar  long  was  seen  to  stray, 
Seen  by  rare  glimpses,  pensive  and  tongue-tied, 
In  hat  of  antique  shape,  and  cloak  of  grey, 

The  same  the  Gipsies  wore. 

Shepherds  had  met  him  on  the  Hurst  in  spring ; 
At  some  lone  alehouse  in  the  Berkshire  moors, 
On  the  warm  ingle-bench,  the  smock-frock'd  boors 
Had  found  him  seated  at  their  entering, 
894 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

But,   'mid  their  drink  and  clatter,  he  would  fly: 
And  I  myself  seem  half  to  know  thy  looks, 

And  put  the  shepherds,   Wanderer,  on  thy  trace; 
And  boys  who  in  lone  wheatfields  scare  the  rooks 

I  ask  if  thou  hast  pass'd  their  quiet  place; 

Or  in  my  boat  I  lie 
Moor'd  to  the  cool  bank  in  the  summer  heats, 

'Mid  wide  grass  meadows  which  the  sunshine  fills, 

And  watch  the  warm  green-muffled  Cumnor  hills, 
And  wonder  if  thou  haunt'st  their  shy  retreats. 

For  most,   I  know,   thou  lov'st  retired  ground. 
Thee,   at  the  ferry,   Oxford  riders  blithe, 

Returning  home  on  summer  nights,  have  met 
Crossing  the  stripling  Thames  at  Bablock-hithe, 

Trailing  in  the  cool  stream  thy  fingers  wet, 

As  the  slow  punt  swings  round : 
And  leaning  backwards  in  a  pensive  dream, 

And  fostering  in  thy  lap  a  heap  of  flowers 

Pluck'd  in  shy  fields  and  distant  Wychwood  bowers, 
And  thine  eyes  resting  on  the  moonlit  stream: 

And  then  they  land,  and  thou  art  seen  no  more. 
Maidens  who  from  the  distant  hamlets  come 

To  dance  around  the  Fyfield  elm  in  May, 
Oft  through  the  darkening  fields  have  seen  thee  roam, 

Or  cross  a  stile  into  the  public  way. 

Oft  thou  hast  given  them  store 
Of  flowers — the  frail-leaf'd,  white  anemone — 

Dark  bluebells  drench'd  with  dews  of  summer  eves, 

And  purple  orchises  with  spotted  leaves — 
But  none  has  words  she  can  report  of  thee. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

And,  above  Godstow  Bridge,  when  hay-time's  here 
In  June,  and  many  a  scythe  in  sunshine  flames, 

Men  who  through  those  wide  fields  of  breezy  grass 
Where  black- wing'd  swallows  haunt  the  glittering  Thames, 

To  bathe  in  the  abandon'd  lasher  pass, 

Have  often  pass'd  thee  near 
Sitting  upon  the  river  bank  o'ergrown : 

Mark'd  thine  outlandish  garb,  thy  figure  spare, 

Thy  dark  vague  eyes,  and  soft  abstracted  air; 
But,  when  they  came  from  bathing,   thou  wert  gone. 

At  some  lone  homestead  in  the  Cumnor  hills, 
Where  at  her  open  door  the  housewife  darns, 

Thou  hast  been  seen,  or  hanging  on  a  gate 
To  watch  the  threshers  in  the  mossy  barns. 

Children,  who  early  range  these  slopes  and  late 

For  cresses  from  the  rills, 
Have  known  thee  watching,  all  an  April  day, 

The  springing  pastures  and  the  feeding  kine ; 

And  mark'd  thee,  when  the  stars  come  out  and  shine, 
Through  the  long  dewy  grass  move  slow  away. 

In  autumn,   on  the  skirts  of  Bagley  Wood, 

Where  most  the  Gipsies  by  the  turf-edged  way 

Pitch  their  smoked  tents,  and  every  bush  you  see 
With  scarlet  patches  tagg'd  and  shreds  of  gray, 
Above  the  forest-ground  call'd  Thessaly — 

The  blackbird  picking  food 
Sees  thee,  nor  stops  his  meal,   nor  fears  at  all ; 
So  often  has  he  known  thee  past  him  stray 
Rapt,  twirling  in  thy  hand  a  wither'd  spray, 
And  waiting  for  the  spark  from  Heaven  to  fall. 
896 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

And  once,  in  winter,  on  the  causeway  chill 

Where  home  through  flooded  fields  foot-travellers  go, 

Have  I  not  pass'd  thee  on  the  wooden  bridge 
Wrapt  in  thy  cloak  and  battling  with  the  snow, 

Thy  face  towards  Hinksey  and  its  wintry  ridge? 

And  thou  hast  climb'd  the  hill 
And  gain'd  the  white  brow  of  the  Cumnor  range ; 

Turn'd  once  to  watch,  while  thick  the  snowflakes  fall, 

The  line  of  festal  light  in  Christ  Church  hall  — 
Then  sought  thy  straw  in  some  sequester'd  grange. 

But  what— I  dream!     Two  hundred  years  are  flown 
Since  first  thy  story  ran  through  Oxford  halls, 

And  the  grave  Glanvil  did  the  tale  inscribe 
That  thou  wert  wander'd  from  the  studious  walls 

To  learn  strange  arts,  and  join  a  Gipsy  tribe: 

And  thou  from  earth  art  gone 
Long  since,   and  in  some  quiet  churchyard  laid; 

Some  country  nook,  where  o'er  thy  unknown  grave 

Tall  grasses  and  white  flowering  nettles  wave 

Under  a  dark  red-fruited  yew-tree's  shade. 

— No,  no,   thou  hast  not  felt  the  lapse  of  hours. 
For  what  wears  out  the  life  of  mortal  men  ? 

'Tis  that  from  change  to  change  their  being  rolls  : 
'Tis  that  repeated  shocks,  again,  again, 

Exhaust  the  energy  of  strongest  souls, 

And  numb  the  elastic  powers. 
Till  having  used  our  nerves  with  bliss  and  teen, 

And  tired  upon  a  thousand  schemes  our  wit, 

To  the  just-pausing  Genius  we  remit 
Our  worn-out  life,  and  are— what  we  have  been. 

Gg  89; 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

Thou  hast  not  lived,  why  shouldst  thou  perish,   so  ? 
Thou  hadst  one  aim,  one  business,  one  desire : 

Else  wert  thou  long  since  number'd  with  the  dead — 
Else  hadst  thou  spent,   like  other  men,   thy  fire. 

The  generations  of  thy  peers  are  fled, 

And  we  ourselves  shall  go  ; 
But  thou  possesses!  an  immortal  lot, 

And  we  imagine  thee  exempt  from  age 

And  living  as  thou  liv'st  on  Glanvil's  page, 
Because  thou  hadst — what  we,  alas,   have  not  ! 

For  early  didst  thou  leave  the  world,   with  powers 
Fresh,  undiverted  to  the  world  without, 

Firm  to  their  mark,  not  spent  on  other  things; 
Free  from  the  sick  fatigue,  the  languid  doubt, 

Which  much  to  have  tried,  in  much  been  baffled,  brings. 

O  Life  unlike  to  ours ! 
Who  fluctuate  idly  without  term  or  scope, 

Of  whom  each  strives,  nor  knows  for  what  he  strives. 

And  each  half  lives  a  hundred  different  lives ; 
Who  wait  like  thee,  but  not,   like  thee,  in  hope. 

Thou  waitest  for  the  spark  from  Heaven:    and  we. 
Vague  half-believers  of  our  casual  creeds, 

Who  never  deeply  felt,   nor  clearly  will'd, 
Whose  insight  never  has  borne  fruit  in  deeds, 

Whose  weak  resolves  never  have  been  fulfill'd ; 

For  whom  each  year  we  see 
Breeds  new  beginnings,  disappointments  new ; 

Who  hesitate  and  falter  life  away, 

And  lose  to-morrow  the  ground  won  to-day — 
Ah,  do  not  we,  Wanderer,  await  it  too  ? 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

Yes,   we  await  it,   but  it  still  delays, 

And  then  we  suffer ;    and  amongst  us  One, 

Who  most  has  sufFer'd,  takes  dejectedly 
His  seat  upon  the  intellectual  throne ; 

And  all  his  store  of  sad  experience  he 

Lays  bare  of  wretched  days  ; 
Tells  us  his  misery's  birth  and  growth  and  signs, 

And  how  the  dying  spark  of  hope  was  fed, 

And  how  the  breast  was  soothed,  and  how  the  head, 
And  all  his  hourly  varied  anodynes. 

This  for  our  wisest :    and  we  others  pine, 

And  wish  the  long  unhappy  dream  would  end, 

And  waive  all  claim  to  bliss,   and  try  to  bear, 
With   close-lipp'd  Patience  for  our  only  friend, 

Sad  Patience,   too  near  neighbour  to  Despair  : 

But  none  has  hope   like  thine. 
Thou  through  the  fields  and  through  the  woods  dost  stray, 

Roaming  the  country- side,  a  truant  boy, 

Nursing  thy  project  in  unclouded  joy, 
And  every  doubt  long  blown  by  time  away. 

O  born  in  days  when  wits  were  fresh  and  clear, 
And  life  ran  gaily  as  the  sparkling  Thames  5 

Before  this  strange  disease  of  modern  life, 
With  its  sick  hurry,  its  divided  aims, 

Its  heads  o'ertax'd,  us  palsied  hearts,  was  rife — 

Fly  hence,  our  contact  fear ! 
Still  fly,  plunge  deeper  in  the  bowering  wood  ! 

Averse,   as  Dido  did  with  gesture  stern 

From  her  false  friend's  approach  in  Hades  turn, 
Wave  us  away,   and  keep  thy  solitude. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

Still  nursing  the  unconquerable  hope, 
Still  clutching  the  inviolable  shade, 

With  a  free  onward  impulse  brushing  through, 
By  night,  the  silver'd  branches  of  the   glade — 

Far  on  the  forest-skirts,   where  none  pursue, 

On   some  mild  pastoral  slope 
Emerge,  and   resting  on  the  moonlit  pales, 

Freshen  thy  flowers,  as  in  former  years, 

With  dew,   or  listen  with  enchanted  ears, 
From  the  dark  dingles,   to  the  nightingales. 

But  fly  our  paths,   our  feverish  contact  fly ! 
For  strong  the  infection  of  our  mental   strife, 

Which,  though  it  gives  no  bliss,  yet  spoils  for  rest ; 
And  we  should  win  thee  from  thy  own  fair  life, 

Like  us  distracted,   and  like  us  unblest. 

Soon,   soon  thy  cheer  would  die, 
Thy  hopes  grow  timorous,  and  unfix'd  thy  powers, 

And  thy  clear  aims  be  cross  and  shifting  made : 

And  then  thy  glad  perennial  youth   would   fade, 
Fade,   and  grow  old  at  last,  and  die  like  ours. 

Then  fly  our  greetings,  fly  our  speech  and  smiles  ! 
— As  some  grave  Tyrian  trader,   from  the  sea, 

Descried  at  sunrise  an  emerging  prow 
Lifting  the  cool-hair'd  creepers  stealthily, 

The  fringes  of  a  southward-facing  brow 

Among  the  ^Egean  isles; 
And  saw  the  merry  Grecian  coaster  come, 

Freighted  with  amber  grapes,  and  Chian  wine, 

Green  bursting  figs,  and  tunnies  steep'd  in  brine  ; 
And  knew  the  intruders  on  his  ancient  home, 

900 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

The  young  light-hearted  Masters  of  the  waves : 

And  snatch'd  his  rudder,  and  shook  out  more  sail, 

And  day  and  night  held  on  indignantly 
O'er  the  blue  Midland  waters  with  the  gale, 

Betwixt  the  Syrtes  and  soft  Sicily, 

To   where  the  Atlantic  raves 
Outside  the  Western   Straits,   and  unbent  sails 

There,  where  down  cloudy  cliffs,  through  sheets  of  foam, 

Shy  traffickers,  the  dark  Iberians  come ; 
And  on  the  beach  undid  his  corded  bales. 


7f2.  Thikmela, 

LJARK!    ah,  the  Nightingale! 

*•  *      The  tawny-throated  ! 

Hark!    from  that  moon/it  cedar  what  a  burst! 

What  triumph  !    hark — what  pain  ! 

O   Wanderer  from  a  Grecian  shore, 

Still,  after  many  years,   in  distant  lands, 

Still  nourishing  in  thy  bewilder'd  brain 

That  wild,   unquench'd,  deep-sunken,   old-world  pain- 
Say,   will  it  never  heal  ? 

And  can  this  fragrant  lawn 

With  its  cool  trees,  and  night. 

And  the  sweet,   tranquil  Thames, 

And  moonshine,  and  the  dew, 

To  thy  rack'd  heart  and  brain 
Afford  no  balm  ? 

Dost  thou  to-night  behold 
Here,  through   the  moonlight  on  this  English  grass. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

The  unfriendly  palace  in  the  Thracian  wild? 

Dost  thou  again  peruse 
With  hot  cheeks  and  sear'd  eyes 
The  too  clear  web,  and  thy  dumb  Sister's  shame? 

Dost  thou  once  more  assay 
Thy  flight,  and  feel  come  over  thee, 
Poor  Fugitive,  the  feathery  change 
Once  more,  and  once  more  seem  to  make  resound 
With  love  and  hate,  triumph  and  agony, 
Lone  Daulis,  and  the  high  Cephissian  vale? 

Listen,   Eugenia — 
How  thick  the  bursts  come  crowding  through  the  leaves  I 

Again — thou  hearestl 
Eternal  Passion ! 
Eternal  Pain  ! 


^3.  Shakespeare 

OTHERS  abide  our  question.     Thou  art  free. 
We  ask  and  ask:    Thou  smilest  and  art  still, 
Out-topping  knowledge.     For  the  loftiest  hill 
That  to  the  stars  uncrowns  his  majesty, 
Planting  his  steadfast  footsteps  in  the  sea, 
Making  the  heaven  of  heavens  his  dwelling-place. 
Spares  but  the  cloudy  border  of  his  base 
To  the  foil'd  searching  of  mortality ; 
And  thou,  who  didst  the  stars  and  sunbeams  know, 
Self-school'd,  self-scann'd,  self-honour'd,  self-secure, 
Didst  walk  on  earth  unguess'd  at.     Better  so  ! 
All  pains  the  immortal  spirit  must  endure, 

All  weakness  that  impairs,   all  griefs  that  bow, 
Find  their  sole  voice  in  that  victorious  brow. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 
7/4.  From  the  Hymn  of  Empedocks 

T  S  it  so  small  a  thing 

To  have  enjoy'd  the  sun, 

To  have  lived  light  in  the  spring, 

To  have  loved,  to  nave  thought,  to  have  done; 
To  have  advanced  true  friends,  and  beat  down  baffling  foes ; 

That  we  must  feign  a  bliss 

Of  doubtful  future  date, 

And  while  we  dream  on  this 

Lose  all  our  present  state, 
And  relegate  to  worlds  yet  distant  our  repose? 

Not  much,   I  know,   you  prize 

What  pleasures  may  be  had, 

Who  look  on  life  with  eyes 

Estranged,   like  mine,   and  sad  : 
And  yet  the  village  churl  feels  the  truth  more  than  you; 

Who 's  loth  to  leave  this  life 

Which  to  him   little  yields  : 

His  hard-task'd  sunburnt  wife, 

His  often-labour'd  fields ; 
The  boors  with  whom  he  talk'd,  the  country  spots  he  knew. 

But  thou,  because  thou  hear'st 

Men  scoff  at  Heaven  and  Fate ; 

Because  the  gods  thou  fear'st 

Fail  to  make  blest  thy  state, 
Tremblest,  and  wilt  not  dare  to  trust  the  joys  there  are. 

I  say,   Fear  not  !    life  still 

Leaves  human  effort  scope. 

But,   since  life  teems  with  ill, 

Nurse  no  extravagant  hope. 
Because  thou  must  not  dream,  thou  need'st  not  then  despair. 


WILLIAM   BRIGHTY   RANDS 

7fj;  The  Flowers 

1823-1! 

HEN   Love  arose  in  heart  and  deed 
To  wake  the  world  to  greater  joy, 
*  What  can  she  give  me  now  ? '    said  Greed, 
Who  thought  to  win  some  costly  toy. 

He  rose,  he  ran,   he  stooj/d,   he  clutch'd ; 

And  soon  the   Flowers,  that  Love  let  fall, 
In  Greed's  hot  grasp  were  fray'd  and  smutch'd, 

And  Greed  said,   '  Flowers !    Can  this  be  all  ? ' 

He  flung  them  down  and  went  his  way, 
He  cared  no  jot  for  thyme  or  rose ; 

But  boys  and  girls  came  out  to  play, 

And  some  took  these  and  some  took  those — 

Red,  blue,  and  white,  and  green  and  gold  ; 

And  at  their  touch  the  dew  return'd, 
And  all  the  bloom  a  thousandfold — 

So  red,   so  ripe,   the  roses  burn'd ! 

756.  The  Thought 

INTO  the  skies,  one  summer's  day, 
*•      I  sent  a  little  Thought  away; 
Up  to  where,   in  the  blue  round, 
The  sun  sat  shining  without  sound. 

Then  my  Thought  came  back  to  me. — 

Little  Thought,  what  did  you  see 

In  the  regions  whence  you  come  ? 

And  when   I  spoke,   my  Thought  was  dumb. 


WILLIAM  BRIGHTY  RANDS 

But  she  breathed  of  what  was  there, 
In  the  pure  bright  upper  air ; 
And,  because  my  Thought  so  shone, 
I   knew  she  had  been  shone  upon. 
Next,  by  night  a  Thought  I  sent 
Up  into  the  firmament ; 
When  the  eager  stars  were  out, 
And  the  still  moon  shone  about. 

And  my  Thought  went  past  the  moon 
In  between  the  stars,  but  soon 
Held  her  breath  and  durst  not  stir, 
For  the  fear  that  covered  her ; 
Then  she  thought,  in  this  demur: 
'  Dare  I  look  beneath  the  shade, 
Into  where  the  worlds  are  made ; 
Where  the  suns  and  stars  are  wrought  ? 
Shall  I  meet  another  Thought  ? 

4  Will  that  other  Thought  have  wings  r 
Shall  I  meet  strange,  heavenly  things  ? 
Thought  of  Thoughts,  and  Light  of  Lights, 
Breath  of  Breaths,  and  Night  of  Nights?' 

Then  my  Thought  began  to  hark 

In  the  illuminated  dark, 

Till  the  silence,  over,  under, 

Made  her  heart  beat  more  than  thunder. 

And  my  Thought  came  trembling  back, 
But  with  something  on  her  track, 
And  with  something  at  her  side ; 
Nor  till  she  has  lived  and  died, 
Lived  and  died,  and  lived  again, 
Will  that  awful  thing  seem  plain, 

G  9°s 


WILLIAM  PHILPOT 

.  Mar  if ^  Su<e 

1823-1880 

OF  all  the  flowers  rising  now, 
Thou  only  saw'st  the  head 
Of  that  unopen'd  drop  of  snow 
I  placed  beside  thy  bed. 

In  all  the  blooms  that  blow  so  fast, 

Thou  hast  no  further  part, 
Save  those  the  hour  I  saw  thee  last, 

I  laid  above  thy  heart. 

Two  snowdrops  for  our  boy  and  girl, 

A  primrose  blown  for  me, 
Wreathed  with  one  often-play'd-with  curl 

From  each  bright  head  for  thee. 

And  so  I  graced  thee  for  thy  grave, 

And  made  these  tokens  fast 
With  that  old  silver  heart  I  gave, 

My  first  gift — and  my  last. 

II 

I  dream'd,  her  babe  upon  her  breast, 
Here  she  might  lie  and  calmly  rest 
Her  happy  eyes  on  that  far  hill 
That  backs  the  landscape  fresh  and  still. 

I  hoped  her  thoughts  would  thrid  the  boughs 
Where  careless  birds  on  love  carouse, 
And  gaze  those  apple-blossoms  through 
To  revel  in  the  boundless  blue. 
906 


WILLIAM  PHILPOT 

But  now  her  faculty  of  sight 

Is  elder  sister  to  the  light, 

And  travels  free  and  unconfined 

Through  dense  and  rare,   through  form  and  mind. 

Or  else  her  life  to  be  complete 
Hath  found  new  channels  full  and  meet — 
Then,  O,   what  eyes  are  leaning  o'er, 
If  fairer  than  they  were  before ! 

WILLIAM  (JOHNSON)  CORY 
7/<?.         Mimnermus  in  Church 

i8*3-i?ga 
V^OU  promise  heavens  free  from  strife, 

Pure  truth,   and  perfect  change  of  will ; 
But  sweet,   sweet  is  this  human  life, 

So  sweet,    I   fain  would  breathe  it  still; 
Your  chilly  stars  I  can  forgo, 
This  warm  kind  world  is  all  I  know. 

You  say  there  is  no  substance  here, 

One  great  reality  above : 
Back  from  that  void  I  shrink  in  fear, 

And  child-like  hide  myself  in  love : 
Show  me  what  angels  feel.  Till  then 
I  cling,  a  mere  weak  man,  to  men. 

You  bid  me  lift  my  mean  desires 
From  faltering  lips  and  fitful  veins 

To  sexless  souls,   ideal  quires, 

Unwearied  voices,   wordless  strains : 

My  mind  with  fonder  welcome  owns 

One  dear  dead  friend's  remember'd  tones. 


WILLIAM  (JOHNSON)  CORY 

Forsooth  the  present  we  must  give 
To  that  which  cannot  pass  away ; 

All  beauteous  things  for  which  we  live 
By  laws  of  time  and  space  decay. 

But  O,   the  very  reason  why 

I  clasp  them,  is  because  they  die. 


7  f9>  HeradJtus 

'"THEY  told  me,  Heraclitus,  they  told  me  you  were  dead, 
They  brought  me  bitter  news  to  hear  and  bitter  tears 
10  shed. 

I  wept  as  I  remember'd  how  often  you  and  I 
Had  tired  the  sun  with  talking  and  sent  him  down  the  sky. 

And  now  that  thou  art  lying,   my  dear  old  Carian  guest, 
A  handful  of  grey  ashes,  long,  long  ago  at  rest, 
Still  are  thy  pleasant  voices,  thy  nightingales,  awake ; 
For  Death,   he  taketh  all  away,  but  them  he  cannot  take 


COVENTRY  PATMORE 

760.  The  Married  Lover 

18*3-1896 

VV7HY,   having  won  her,  do  I  woo? 
^       Because  her  spirit's  vestal  grace 
Provokes  me  always  to  pursue, 

But,   spirit-like,  eludes  embrace; 
Because  her  womanhood  is  such 

That,  as  on  court-days  subjects  kiss 
The  Queen's  hand,   yet  so  near  a  touch 

Affirms  no  mean  familiarness ; 


COVENTRY  PATMORE 

Nay,   rather  marks  more  fair  the  height 

Which  can  with  safety  so  neglect 
To  dread,  as  lower  ladies  might, 

That  grace  could  meet  with  disrespect ; 
Thus  she  with  happy  favour  feeds 

Allegiance  from  a  love  so  high 
That  thence  no  false  conceit  proceeds 

Of  difference  bridged,   or  state  put  by ; 
Because  although  in  act  and  word 

As  lowly  as  a  wife  can  be, 
Her  manners,  when  they  call  me  lord, 

Remind  me  'tis  by  courtesy  ; 
Not  with  her  least  consent  of  will, 

Which  would  my  proud  affection  hurt, 
But  by  the  noble  style  that  still 

Imputes  an  unattain'd  desert ; 
Because  her  gay  and  lofty  brows, 

When  all  is  won  which  hope  can  ask, 
Reflect  a  light  of  hopeless  snows 

That  bright  in   virgin  ether  bask; 
Because,  though  free  of  the  outer  court 

I  am,  this  Temple  keeps  its  shrine 
Sacred  to  Heaven ;    because,   in  short, 

She 's  not  and  never  can  be  mine. 

761.  ' If  I  were  dead* 

<  T  F   I  were  dead,   you'd  sometimes  say,  Poor  Child ! ' 

•*•      The  dear  lips  quiver'd  as  they  spake, 
And  the  tears  brake 

From  eyes  which,  not  to  grieve  me,   brightly  smiled. 
Poor  Child,  poor  Child! 

I  seem  to  hear  your  laugh,   your  talk,   your  song. 

909 


COVENTRY  PATMORE 

It  is  not  true  that  Love  will  do  no  wrong. 

Poor  Child! 

And  did  you  think,   when  you  so  cried  and  smiled, 

How  I,  in  lonely  nights,  should  lie  awake, 

And  of  those  words  your  full  avengers  make  ? 

Poor  Child,  poor  Child! 

And  now,  unless  it  be 

That  sweet  amends  thrice  told  are  come  to  thee, 

0  God,   have  Thou  no  mercy  upon  me  ! 
Poor  Child  ! 

762.  'Departure 

T  T  was  not  like  your  great  and  gracious  ways  I 
Do  you,  that  have  naught  other  to  lament, 
Never,  my   Love,   repent 
Of  how,  that  July  afternoon, 
You  went, 

With  sudden,   unintelligible  phrase, 
And  frighten'd  eye, 
Upon  your  journey  of  so  many  days 
Without  a  single  kiss,  or  a  good-bye  ? 

1  knew,  indeed,  that  you  were  parting  soon ; 
And  so  we  sate,   within  the  low  sun's  rays, 
You  whispering  to  me,   for  your  voice  was  weak, 
Your  harrowing  praise. 

Well,   it  was  well 
To  hear  you  such  things  speak, 
And  I  could  tell 

What  made  your  eyes  a  growing  gloom  of  love, 
As  a  warm  South-wind  sombres  a  March  grove. 
And  it  was  like  your  great  and  gracious  ways 
To  turn  your  talk  on  daily  things,  my  Dear, 
910 


COVENTRY  PATMORE 

Lifting  the  luminous,   pathetic  lash 

To  let  the  laughter  flash, 

Whilst  I  drew  near, 

Because  you  spoke  so  low  that  I  could  scarcely  hear. 

But  all  at  once  to  leave  me  at  the  last, 

More  at  the  wonder  than  the  loss  aghast, 

With  huddled,   unintelligible  phrase, 

And  frighten'd  eye, 

And  go  your  journey  of  all  days 

With  not  one  kiss,  or  a  good-bye, 

And  the  only  loveless  look  the  look  with  which  you  pass'd 

'Twas  all  unlike  your  great  and  gracious  ways. 


7^3.  The  Toys 

JV^Y  little  Son,  who  look'd  from  thoughtful  eyes 

•*••*•      And  moved  and  spoke  in  quiet  grown-up  wise, 

Having  my  law  the  seventh  time  disobey'd, 

I  struck  him,   and  dismiss'd 

With  hard  words  and  unkiss'd, 

— His  Mother,  who  was  patient,  being  dead. 

Then,  fearing  lest  his  grief  should  hinder  sleep, 

I  visited  his  bed, 

But  found  him  slumbering  deep, 

With  darken'd  eyelids,   and  their  lashes  yet 

From  his  late  sobbing  wet. 

And  I,  with  moan, 

Kissing  away  his  tears,   left  others  of  my  own ; 

For,  on  a  table  drawn  beside  his  head, 

He  had  put,  within  his  reach, 

A  box  of  counters  and  a  red-vein'd  stone, 

A  piece  of  glass  abraded  by  the  beach, 

911 


COVENTRY  PATMORE 

And  six  or  seven  shells, 

A  bottle  with  bluebells, 

And  two  French  copper  coins,  ranged  there  with  careful  art, 

To  comfort  his  sad  heart. 

So  when  that  night  I  pray'd 

To  God,   I  wept,  and  said: 

Ah,  when  at  last  we  lie  with  tranced  breath, 

Not  vexing  Thee  in  death, 

And  Thou  rememberest  of  what  toys 

We  made  our  joys, 

How  weakly  understood 

Thy  great  commanded  good, 

Then,   fatherly  not  less 

Than  I  whom  Thou  hast  moulded  from  the  clay, 

Thou'lt  leave  Thy  wrath,  and  say. 

'  I  will  be  sorry  for  their  childishness.' 


764.  A  Farewell 


all  my  will,  but  much  against  my  heart, 
We  two  now  part. 
My  Very  Dear, 

Our  solace  is,  the  sad  road  lies  so  clear. 
It  needs  no  art, 
With  faint,  averted  feet 
And  many  a  tear, 
In  our  opposed  paths  to  persevere. 
Go  thou  to  East,  I  West. 
We  will  not  say 

There's  any  hope,  it  is  so  far  away. 
But,  O,  my  Best, 
91* 


COVENTRY  PATMORE 

When  the  one  darling  of  our  widowhead, 

The  nursling  Grief, 

Is  dead, 

And  no  dews  blur  our  eyes 

To  see  the  peach-bloom  come  in  evening  skies, 

Perchance  we  may, 

Where  now  this  night  is  day, 

And  even  through  faith  of  still  averted  feet, 

Making  full  circle  of  our  banishment, 

Amazed  meet ; 

The  bitter  journey  to  the  bourne  so  sweet 

Seasoning  the  termless  feast  of  our  content 

With  tears  of  recognition  never  dry. 


SYDNEY  DOBELL 


76 /.  The  Ballad  of  Keith  of  Ravehton 

1834-1874 
'HE   murmur  of  the  mourning  ghost 

That  keeps  the  shadowy  kine, 
O   Keith  of  Ravelston, 
The  sorrows  of  thy  line ! ' 


T 


Ravelston,   Ravelston, 

The  merry  path  that  leads 
Down  the  golden  morning  hill, 

And  thro'  the  silver  meads; 

Ravelston,   Ravelston, 

The  stile  beneath  the  tree, 
The  maid  that  kept  her  mother's  kine, 

The  song  that  sang  she ! 

9«3 


SYDNEY  DOBELL 

She  sang  her  song,  she  kept  her  kine, 

She  sat  beneath  the  thorn, 
When  Andrew  Keith  of  Ravelston 

Rode  thro'  the  Monday  morn. 

His  henchmen  sing,  his  hawk-bells  ring, 

His  belted  jewels  shine; 
O   Keith  of  Ravelston, 

The  sorrows  of  thy  line ! 

Year  after  year,  where  Andrew  came, 
Comes  evening  down  the  glade, 

And  still  there  sits  a  moonshine  ghost 
Where  sat  the  sunshine  maid. 

Her  misty  hair  is  faint  and  fair, 
She  keeps  the  shadowy  kine; 

0  Keith  of  Ravelston, 
The  sorrows  of  thy  line! 

1  lay  my  hand  upon  the  stile, 
The  stile  is  lone  and  cold, 

The  burnie  that  goes  babbling  by 
Says  naught  that  can  be  told. 

Yet,  stranger !    here,  from  year  to  year, 

She  keeps  her  shadowy  kine ; 
O   Keith  of  Ravelston, 

The  sorrows  of  thy  line ! 

Step  out  three  steps,  where  Andrew  stood- 
Why  blanch  thy  cheeks  for  fear? 

The  ancient  stile  is  not  alone, 

'Tis  not  the  burn  I  hear  1 
9M 


SYDNEY  DOBELL 

She  makes  her  immemorial  moan, 
She  keeps  her  shadowy  kine; 

O    Keith  of  Ravelston, 
The  sorrows  of  thy  line ! 

766.  Return ! 

"D  ETURN,  return !    all  night  my  lamp  is  burning, 

All  night,   like  it,   my  wide  eyes  watch  and  burn 
Like  it,   I   fade  and  pale,  when  day  returning 
Bears  witness  that  the  absent  can  return, 
Return,  return. 

Like  it,   I  lessen  with  a  lengthening  sadness, 
Like  it,   I  burn  to  waste  and  waste  to  burn, 
Like  it,    I  spend  the  golden  oil  of  gladness 
To  feed  the  sorrowy  signal  for  return, 
Return,  return. 

Like  it,  like  it,  whene'er  the  east  wind  sings, 
I  bend  and  shake ;    like  it,  I  quake  and  yearn, 
When  Hope's  late  butterflies,  with  whispering  wings, 
Fly  in  out  of  the  dark,  to  fall  and  burn — 
Bum  in  the  watchfire  of  return, 
Return,  return. 

Like  it,  the  very  flame  whereby  I  pine 
Consumes  me  to  its  nature.     While  I  mourn 
My  soul  becomes  a  better  soul  than  mine, 
And  from  its  brightening  beacon  I  discern 
My  starry  love  go  forth  from  me,  and  shine 
Across  the  seas  a  path  for  thy  return, 
Return,  return. 

Return,  return !    all  night  I  see  it  burn, 
All  night  it  prays  like  me,  and  lifts  a  twin 

9>S 


SYDNEY  DOBELL 

Of  palmed  praying  hands  that  meet  and  yearn — 
Yearn  to  the  impleaded  skies  for  thy  return. 
Day,  like  a  golden  fetter,   locks  them  in, 
And  wans  the  light  that  withers,  tho'  it  burn 

As  warmly  still  for  thy  return ; 
Still  thro'  the  splendid  load  uplifts  the  thin 
Pale,  paler,  palest  patience  that  can   learn 
Naught  but  that  votive  sign  for  thy  return — 
That  single  suppliant  sign  for  thy  return, 
Return,  return. 

Return,  return !    lest  haply,   love,  or  e'er 
Thou  touch  the  lamp  the  light  have  ceased  to  burn, 
And  thou,  who  thro'  the  window  didst  discern 
The  wonted  flame,   shall  reach  the  topmost  stair 

To  find  no  wide  eyes  watching  there, 
No  wither'd  welcome  waiting  thy  return ! 
A  passing  ghost,  a  smoke-wreath  in  the  air, 
The  flameless  ashes,  and  the  soulless  urn, 
Warm  with  the  famish'd  fire  that  lived  to  burn- 
Burn  out  its  lingering  life  for  thy  return, 
Its  last  of  lingering  life  for  thy  return, 
Its  last  of  lingering  life  to  light  thy  late  return. 
Return,   return. 

767.  A  Chanted  Calendar 

THIRST  came  the  primrose, 
*     On  the  bank  high, 
Like  a  maiden  looking  forth 
From  the  window  of  a  tower 
When  the  battle  rolls  below, 
So  look'd  she, 
And  saw  the  storms  go  by. 
9.6 


SYDNEY  DOBELL 

Then  came  the  wind-flower 
In  the  valley  left  behind, 
As  a  wounded  maiden,   pale 
With  purple  streaks  of  woe, 
When  the  battle  has  roll'd  by 
Wanders  to  and  fro, 
So  totter'd  she, 
Dishevell'd  in  the  wind. 

Then  came  the  daisies, 
On  the  first  of  May, 
Like  a  banner'd  show's  advance 
While  the  crowd  runs  by  the  way, 

With  ten  thousand  flowers  about  them  they  came  trooping 
through   the  fields. 

As  a  happy  people  come, 

So  came  they, 

As  a  happy  people  come 

When  the  war  has  roll'd  away, 

With  dance  and  tabor,  pipe  and  drum, 

And  all  make  holiday. 

Then  came  the  cowslip, 

Like  a  dancer  in  the  fair, 

She  spread  her  little  mat  of  green, 

And  on  it  danced  she. 

With  a  fillet  bound  about  her  brow, 

A  fillet  round  her  happy  brow, 

A  golden  fillet  round  her  brow, 

And  rubies  in  her  hair. 


917 


SYDNEY  DOBELL 


7<$8.  Laus  'Deo 

IN  the  hall  the  coffin  waits,  and  the  idle  armourer  stands. 
At  his  belt  the  coffin  nails,  and  the  hammer  in  his  hands. 
The  bed  of  state  is   hung  with  crape— the  grand  old  bed 

where  she  was  wed — 

And  like  an  upright  corpse  she  sitteth  gazing  dumbly  at  the  bed. 
Hour  by  hour  her  serving-men  enter  by  the  curtain'd  door, 
And  with  steps  of  muffled  woe  pass  breathless  o'er  the 

silent  floor, 
And   marshal   mutely  round,   and    look   from   each  to  each 

with  eyelids  red; 
'Touch  him  not/  she  shriek'd  and  cried,  'he  is  but  newly 

dead !  ' 

<O  my  own  dear  mistress,'  the  ancient  Nurse  did  say, 
'Seven  long  days  and  seven  long  nights  you  have  watch'd 

him  where  he  lay.' 

'Seven  long  days  and  seven  long  nights,'  the  hoary  Steward  said; 
'Seven  long  days  and  seven  long  nights,'  groan'd  the 

Warrener  gray; 

'  Seven,'  said  the  old  Henchman,  and  bow'd  his  aged  head ; 
'  On  your  lives  !'  she  shriek'd  and  cried,  'he  is  but  newly  dead!' 
Then  a  father  Priest  they  sought, 
The  Priest  that  taught  her  all  she  knew, 
And  they  told  him  of  her  loss. 
'  For  she  is  mild  and  sweet  of  will, 
She  loved  him,  and  his  words  are  peace, 
And  he  shall  heal  her  ill.' 
But  her  watch  she  did  not  cease. 
He  bless'd  her  where  she  sat  distraught, 
And  show'd  her  holy  cross, — 
The  cross  she  kiss'd  from  year  to  year— 
918 


SYDNEY  DOBELL 

But  she  neither  saw  nor  heard; 
And  said  he  in  her  deaf  ear 
All  he  had  been  wont  to  teach, 
All  she  had  been  fond  to  hear, 
Missall'd  prayer,  and  solemn  speech, 
But  she  answer'd  not  a  word 
Only  when  he  turn'd  to  speak  with  those  who  wept  about 

the  bed, 

MDn  your  lives ! '  she  shriek'd  and  cried,  'he  is  but  newly  dead ' ' 
Then  how  sadly  he  turn'd  from  her,  it  were  wonderful  to  tell 
And  he  stood  beside  the  death-bed  as  by  one  who  slumbers  well 
And  he  lean'd  o'er  him  who  lay  there,  and  in  cautious 

whisper  low, 
'He  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth,'  said  the  Priest,  and  smooth'd 

his  brow. 

'  Sleepeth  ? '  said  she,  looking  up,  and  the  sun  rose  in  her  face  ! 

He  must  be  better  than  I  thought,  for  the  sleep  is  very  sound  ' 

He  is  better,'  said  the  Priest,  and  call'd  her  maidens  round. 

With  them  came  that  ancient  dame  who  nursed  her  wher 

a  child; 

[0  Nurse!  '  she  sigh'd,  <O  Nurse  !  '  she  cried,  'O  Nurse  !' 
and  then  she  smiled, 

And  then  she  wept ;    with  that  they  drew 

About  her,  as  of  old; 

Her  dying  eyes  were  sweet  and  blue, 

Her  trembling  touch  was  cold ; 

But  she  said,    'My  maidens  true, 

No  more  weeping  and  well-away; 

Let  them  kill  the  feast. 

I  would  be  happy  in  my  soul. 

"He  is  better,"  saith  the  Priest; 

He  did  but  sleep  the  weary  day, 

And  will  waken  whole. 


919 


SYDNEY  DOBELL 

Carry  me  to  his  dear  side, 

And  let  the  halls  be  trim; 

Whistly,  whistly,'  said  she, 

'  I  am  wan  with  watching  and  wail, 

He  must  not  wake  to  see  me  pale, 

Let  me  sleep  with  him. 

See  you  keep  the  tryst  for  me, 

I  would  rest  till  he  awake 

And  rise  up  like  a  bride. 

But  whistly,   whistly  ! '  said  she. 

'  Yet  rejoice  your  Lord  doth  live ; 

And  for  His  dear  sake 

Say  Laui,   Domine.' 

Silent  they  cast  down  their  eyes, 

And  every  breast  a  sob  did  rive, 

She  lifted  her  in  wild  surprise 

And  they  dared  not  disobey. 

'Laus  Deo,'  said  the  Steward,  hoary  when  her  days  were  new  ; 
' Laut  Deo,'  said  the  Warrener,  whiter  than  the  warren  snows; 
4  Laus  Deo,'  the  bald  Henchman,   who  had   nursed  her  on 
his  knee. 

The  old  Nurse  moved  her  lips  in  vain, 

And  she  stood  among  the  train 

Like  a  dead  tree  shaking  dew. 

Then  the  Priest  he  softly  slept 

Midway  in  the  little  band, 

And  he  took  the  Lady's  hand. 

1  Laut  Deo,'  he  said  aloud, 

'Laus  Deo,'  they  said  again, 

Yet  again,  and  yet  again, 

Humbly  cross'd  and  lowly  bow'd, 

Till  in  wont  and  fear  it  rose 

To  the  Sabbath  strain. 


SYDNEY  DOBELL 

But  she  neither  turn'd  her  head 
Nor  'Whistly,  whistly,'  said  she. 
Her  hands  were  folded  as  in  grace, 
We  laid  her  with  her  ancient  race 
And  all  the  village  wept. 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM 
769.  The  Fairies 

i8 

T  T  P  the  airy  mountain, 
*-*       Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather ! 

Down  along  the  rocky  shore 

Some  make  their  home, 
They  live  on  crispy  pancakes 

Of  yellow  tide-foam  ; 
Some  in  the  reeds 

Of  the  black  mountain  lake, 
With  frogs  for  their  watch-dogs. 

All  night  awake. 

High  on  the  hill-top 

The  old  King  sits  ; 
He  is  now  so  old  and  gray 

He's  nigh  lost  his  wits. 

ya 


WILLIAM  ALL1NGHAM 

With  a  bridge  of  white  mist 

Columbkill  he  crosses, 
On  his  stately  journeys 

From  Slieveleague  to  Rosses; 
Or  going  up  with  music 

On  cold  starry  nights 
To  sup  with  the  Queen 

Of  the  gay  Northern   Lights. 

They  stole  little  Bridget 

For  seven  years  long ; 
When  she  came  down  again 

Her  friends  were  all  gone. 
They  took  her  lightly  back, 

Between  the  night  and  morrow, 
They  thought  that  she  was  fast  asleep, 

But  she  was  dead  with  sorrow. 
They  have  kept  her  ever   since 

Deep  within  the  lake, 
On  a  bed  of  flag-leaves, 

Watching  till  she  wake. 

By  the  craggy  hill-side, 

Through  the  mosses  bare, 
They  have  planted  thorn-trees 

For  pleasure  here  and  there. 
If  any  man  so  daring 

As  dig  them  up  in  spite, 
He  shall  find  their  sharpest  thorns 

In  his  bed  at  night. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men ; 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM 

Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together; 
Green  jacket,   red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather! 

GEORGE    MAC  DONALD 
770.  That  Holy  Thing 

YHEY  aii  were  looking  for  a  king      I824"I9°5 

To  slay  their  foes  and  lift  them  high : 
Thou  cam'st,   a  little  baby  thing 
That  made  a  woman  cry. 

O  Son  of  Man,   to  right  my  lot 

Naught  but  Thy  presence  can  avail; 
Yet  on  the  road  Thy  wheels  are  not, 
Nor  on  the  sea  Thy  sail ! 

My  how  or  when  Thou  wilt  not  heed, 

But  come  down  Thine  own  secret  stair, 
That  Thou  mayst  answer  all  my  need—  ' 
Yea,   every  bygone  prayer. 

DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 
77/.  The  Blessed  T>amozel 

"THE  blessed  Damozel  lean'd  out 

From  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven: 
Her  blue  grave  eyes  were  deeper  much 

Than  a  deep  water,  even. 
She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand, 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 

Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem, 
No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn, 

But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift 
On  the  neck  meetly  worn; 

And  her  hair,   lying  down  her  back, 
Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn. 

Herseem'd  she  scarce  had  been  a  day 

One  of  God's  choristers ; 
The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gon*" 

From  that  still  look  of  hers  ; 
Albeit,  to  them  she  left,  her  day 

Had  counted  as  ten  years. 

(To  one  it  is  ten  years  of  years: 
.   .  .   Yet  now,   here  in  this  place, 

Surely  she  lean'd  o'er  me, — her  hair 
Fell  all  about  my  face.   .   .   . 

Nothing :   the  Autumn-fall  of  leaves. 
The  whole  year  sets  apace.) 

It  was  the  terrace  of  God's  house 
That  she  was  standing  on, — 

By  God  built  over  the  sheer  depth 
In  which  Space  is  begun ; 

So  high,  that  looking  downward  thence, 
She  scarce  could  see  the  sun. 

It  lies  from  Heaven  across  the  flood 

Of  ether,   as  a  bridge. 
Beneath,  the  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 
The  void,   as  low  as  where  this  earth 

Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 

But  in  those  tracts,  with  her,  it  was 

The  peace  of  utter  light 
And  silence.      For  no  breeze  may  stir 

Along  the   steady  flight 
Of  seraphim  ;    no  echo  there, 

Beyond  all  depth  or  height. 

Heard  hardly,   some  of  her  new  friends, 

Playing  at  holy  games, 
Spake,  gentle-mouth'd,   among  themselves. 

Their  virginal  chaste   names; 
And  the  souls,  mounting  up  to  God, 

Went  by  her  like  thin  flames. 

And  still  she  bow'd  herself,  and  stoop'd 

Into  the  vast  waste  calm  ; 
Till  her  bosom's  pressure  must  have  made 

The  bar  she  lean'd  on  warm, 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 

Along  her  bended  arm. 

From  the  fixt  lull  of  Heaven,   she  saw 

Time,   like  a  pulse,   shake  fierce 
Through  all  the  worlds.     Her  gaze  still  strove, 

In  that  steep  gulf,  to  pierce 
The  swarm;  and  then  she  spoke,  as  when 

The  stars  sang  in  their  spheres. 

'I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me, 

For  he  will  come,'  she  said. 
'Have  I  not  pray'd  in  solemn  Heaven? 

On  earth,  has  he  not  pray'd  ? 
Are  not  two  prayers  a  perfect  strength? 

And   shall   I  feel  afraid? 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 

'When  round  his  head  the  aureole  clings, 

And  he  is  clothed  in  white, 
I'll  take  his  hand,  and  go  with  him 

To  the  deep  wells  of  light, 
And  we  will  step  down  as  to  a  stream 

And  bathe  there  in  God's  sight. 

'We  two  will  stand  beside  that  shrine, 

Occult,  withheld,  untrod, 
Whose  lamps  tremble  continually 

With  prayer  sent  up  to  God ; 
And  where  each  need,   reveal'd,  expects 

Its  patient  period. 

'  We  two  will  lie  i'  the  shadow  of 

That  living  mystic  tree 
Within  whose  secret  growth  the  Dove 

Sometimes  is  felt  to  be, 
While  every  leaf  that  His  plumes  touch 

Saith  His  name  audibly. 

'And  I  myself  will  teach  to   him, — 

I  myself,  lying  so, — 
The  songs  I  sing  here;    which  his  mouth 

Shall  pause  in,   hush'd  and  slow, 
Finding  some  knowledge  at  each  pause, 

And  some  new  thing  to  know.' 

(Alas  !    to  her  wise  simple   mind 
These  things  were  all  but    known 

Before :    they  trembled  on  her  sense, — 
Her  voice  had  caught  their   tone. 

Alas  for  lonely  Heaven  !    Alas 
For  life  wrung  out  alone  1 

926 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 

Alas,  and  though  the  end  were  reach'd?  . 

Was  thy  part  understood 
Or  borne  in  trust  ?    And  for  her  sake 

Shall  this  too  be  found  good? 

May  the  close  lips  that  knew  not   prayer 

Praise  ever,   though   they  would  ?) 

'We  two,'  she  said,    'will  seek  the  groves 

Where  the  lady  Mary  is, 
With  her  five  handmaidens,'  whose  names 

Are  five  sweet  symphonies:— 
Cecily,   Gertrude,   Magdalen, 

Margaret  and  Rosalys. 

'  Circle-wise  sit  they,  with  bound  locks 

And  bosoms  covered  ; 
Into  the  fine  cloth,  white  like  flame, 

Weaving  the  golden  thread, 
To  fashion  the  birth-robes  for  them 

Who  are  just  born,  being  dead. 

'He  shall  fear,  haply,   and  be  dumb. 

Then  I  will  lay  my  cheek 
To  his,  and  tell  about  our  love 

Not  once  abash 'd  or  weak: 
And  the  dear  Mother  will  approve 

My  pride,  and  let  me  speak. 

1  Herself  shall  bring  us,   hand  in  hand. 

To  Him  round  whom  all  souls 
Kneel— the  unnumber'd  solemn  heads 

Bow'd  with  their  aureoles: 
And  Angels,  meeting  us,   shall  sing 

To  their  citherns  and  citoles. 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 

'  There  will  I  ask  of  Christ  the   Lord 
Thus  much  for  him  and  me : — 

To  have  more  blessing  than  on  earth 
In  nowise  ;    but  to  be 

As  then  we  were, — being  as  then 
At  peace.     Yea,  verily. 

'  Yea,  verily ;    when  he  is  come 

We  will  do  thus  and  thus : 
Till  this  my  vigil  seem  quite  strange 

And  almost  fabulous; 
We  two  will  live  at  once,  one  life; 

And  peace  shall  be  with  us.' 

She  gazed,  and  listen'd,  and  then  said, 
Less  sad  of  speech  than  mild, — 

'All  this  is  when  he  comes.'     She  ceased 
The  light  thrill'd  past  her,  fill'd 

With  Angels,  in  strong  level  lapse. 
Her  eyes  pray'd,  and  she  smiled. 

(I   saw  her  smile.)     But  soon  their  flight 
Was  vague  'mid  the  poised  spheres. 

And  then  she  cast  her  arms  along 
The  golden  barriers, 

And  laid  her  face  between  her  hands, 
And  wept.     (I  heard  hei  tears.) 


928 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 
77-2.  Love  in  the  Valley 

b. 1828 

TNDER  yonder  beech-tree  single  on  the  green-sward, 
*-'      Couch'd  with  her  arms  behind  her  golden  head, 
Knees  and  tresses  folded  to  slip  and  ripple  idly, 

Lies  my  young  love  sleeping  in  the  shade. 
Had  I  the  heart  to  slide  an  arm  beneath  her, 

Press  her  parting  lips  as  her  waist  I  gather  slow, 
Waking  in  amazement  she  could  not  but  embrace  me: 

Then  would  she  hold  me  and  never  let  me  go  ? 

Shy  as  the  squirrel  and  wayward  as  the  swallow, 

Swift  as  the  swallow  along  the  river's  light 
Circleting  the  surface  to  meet  his  mirror'd  winglets, 

Fleeter  she  seems  in  her  stay  than  in  her  flight. 
Shy  as  the  squirrel  that  leaps  among  the  pine-tops, 

Wayward  as  the  swallow  overhead  at  set  of  sun, 
She  whom  I  love  is  hard  to  catch  and  conquer, 

Hard,  but  O  the  glory  of  the  winning  were  she  won  I 

When  her  mother  tends  her  before  the  laughing  mirror, 

Tying  up  her  laces,  looping  up  her  hair, 
Often  she  thinks,  were  this  wild  thing  wedded, 

More  love  should  I  have,  and  much  less  care. 
When  her  mother  tends  her  before  the  lighted  mirror, 

Loosening  her  laces,  combing  down  her  curls, 
Often  she  thinks,   were  this  wild  thing  wedded, 

I  should  miss  but  one  for  many  boys  and  girls. 


Hh 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 

Heartless  she  is  as  the  shadow  in  the  meadows 

Flying  to  the  hills  on  a  blue  and  breezy  noon. 
No,  she  is  athirst  and  drinking  up  her  wonder : 

Earth  to  her  is  young  as  the  slip  of  the  new  moon. 
Deals  she  an  unkindness,  'tis  but  her  rapid  measure, 

Even  as  in  a  dance ;    and  her  smile  can  heal  no  less : 
Like  the  swinging   May-cloud   that   pelts  the  flowers   with 
hailstones 

Off  a  sunny  border,  she  was  made  to  bruise  and  bless. 

Lovely  are  the  curves  of  the  white  owl  sweeping 

Wavy  in  the  dusk  lit  by  one  large  star. 
Lone  on  the  fir-branch,  his  rattle-note  unvaried, 

Brooding  o'er  the  gloom,   spins  the  brown  evejar. 
Darker  grows  the  valley,  more  and  more  forgetting : 

So  were  it  with  me  if  forgetting  could  be  will'd. 
Tell  the  grassy  hollow  that  holds  the  bubbling  well-spring, 

Tell  it  to  forget  the  source  that  keeps  it  filPd. 

Stepping  down  the  hill  with  her  fair  companions, 

Arm  in  arm,   all  against  the  raying  West, 
Boldly  she  sings,   to  the  merry  tune  she  marches, 

Brave  is  her  shape,  and  sweeter  unpossess'd. 
Sweeter,   for  she  is  what  my  heart  first  awaking 

Whisper'd  the  world  was ;    morning  light  is  she. 
Love  that  so  desires  would  fain  keep  her  changeless; 

Fain  would  fling  the  net,  and  fain  have  her  free. 

Happy  happy  time,  when  the  white  star  hovers 
Low  over  dim  fields  fresh  with  bloomy  dew, 

Near  the  face  of  dawn,   that  draws  athwart  the  darkness, 
Threading  it  with  colour,   like  yewberries  the  yew. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 

Thicker  crowd  the  shades  as  the  grave  East  deepens 
Glowing,   and  with  crimson  a  long  cloud  swells. 

Maiden  still  the  morn  is  ;    and  strange  she  is,  and  secret ; 
Strange  her  eyes ;   her  cheeks  are  cold  as  cold  sea-shells. 

Sunrays,   leaning  on  our  southern  hills  and  lighting 

Wild  cloud-mountains  that  drag  the  hills  along, 
Oft  ends  the  day  of  your  shifting  brilliant  laughter 

Chill  as  a  dull  face  frowning  on  a  song. 
Ay,  but  shows  the  South-west  a  ripple-feather'd  bosom 

Blown  to  silver  while  the  clouds  are  shaken  and  ascend 
Scaling  the  mid-heavens  as  they  stream,  there  comes  a  sunset 

Rich,   deep  like  love  in  beauty  without  end. 

When  at  dawn  she  sighs,  and  like  an  infant  to  the  window 

Turns  grave  eyes  craving  light,   released  from  dreams, 
Beautiful  she  looks,   like  a  white  water-lily 

Bursting  out  of  bud  in  havens  of  the  streams. 
When  from  bed  she  rises  clothed  from  neck  to  ankle 

In  her  long  nightgown  sweet  as  boughs  of  May, 
Beautiful  she  looks,  like  a  tall  garden-lily 

Pure  from  the  night,   and  splendid  for  the  day. 

Mother  of  the  dews,  da.k  eye-lash'd  twilight, 

Low-lidded  twilight,  o'er  the  valley's  brim, 
Rounding  on  thy  breast  sings  the  dew-delighted  skylark, 

Clear  as  though  the  dewdrops  had  their  voice  in  him. 
Hidden  where  the  rose-flush  drinks  the  rayless  planet, 

Fountain-full  he  pours  the  spraying  fountain-showers. 
Let  me  hear  her  laughter,  I  would  have  her  ever 

Cool  as  dew  in  twilight,  the  lark  above  the  flowers. 

93' 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 

All  the  girls  are  out  with  their  baskets  for  the  primrose; 

Up  lanes,  woods  through,   they  troop  in  joyful  bands. 
My  sweet  leads :   she  knows  not  why,  but  now  she  loiters. 

Eyes  the  bent  anemones,  and  hangs  her  hands. 
Such  a  look  will  tell  that  the  violets  are  peeping, 

Coming  the  rose :    and  unaware  a  cry 
Springs  in  her  bosom  for  odours  and  for  colour, 

Covert  and  the  nightingale  ;    she  knows  not  why. 


KerchiePd  head  and  chin  she  darts  between  her  tulips, 

Streaming  like  a  willow  gray  in  arrowy  rain  : 
Some  bend  beaten  cheek  to  gravel,  and  their  angel 

She  will  be;   she  lifts  them,  and  on  she  speeds  again. 
Black  the  driving  raincloud  breasts  the  iron  gateway: 

She  is  forth  to  cheer  a  neighbour  lacking  mirth. 
So  when  sky  and  grass  met  rolling  dumb  for  thunder 

Saw  I  once  a  white  dove,  sole  light  of  earth. 


Prim  little  scholars  are  the  flowers  of  her  garden, 

Train'd  to  stand  in  rows,  and  asking  if  they  please. 
I  might  love  them  well  but  for  loving  more  the  wild  ones : 

O  my  wild  ones !    they  tell  me  more  than  these. 
You,  my  wild  one,  you  tell  of  honied  field-rose, 

Violet,  blushing  eglantine  in  life ;    and  even  as  they, 
They  by  the  wayside  are  earnest  of  your  goodness, 

You  are  of  life's,  on  the  banks  that  line  the  way. 

Peering  at  her  chamber  the  white  crowns  the  red  rose, 
Jasmine  winds  the  porch  with  stars  two  and  three. 

Parted  is  the  window ;    she  sleeps  ;    the  starry  jasmine 
Breathes  a  falling  breath  that  carries  thoughts  of  me. 
93* 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 

Sweeter  unpossess'd,  have  I  said  of  her  my  sweetest? 

Not  while  she  sleeps  :  while  she  sleeps  the  jasmine  breathes, 
Luring  her  to  love ;    she  sleeps  ;    the  starry  jasmine 

Bears  me  to  her  pillow  under  white  rose-wreaths. 

Yellow  with  birdfoot-trefoil  are  the  grass-glades ; 

Yellow  with  cinquefoil  of  the  dew-gray  leaf; 
Yellow  with  stonecrop  ;    the  moss-mounds  are  yellow  ; 

Blue-neck'd  the  wheat  sways,   yellowing  to  the  sheaf. 
Green-yellow,   bursts  from  the  copse  the  laughing  yaffle ; 

Sharp  as  a  sickle  is  the  edge  of  shade  and  shine  : 
Earth  in  her  heart  laughs  looking  at  the  heavens, 

Thinking  of  the  harvest :    I  look  and  think  of  mine. 

This  I  may  know :    her  dressing  and  undressing 

Such  a  change  of  light  shows  as  when  the  skies  in  sport 
Shift  from  cloud  to  moonlight ;    or  edging  over  thunder 

Slips  a  ray  of  sun  ;   or  sweeping  into  port 
White  sails  furl;    or  on  the  ocean  borders 

White  sails  lean  along  the  waves  leaping  green. 
Visions  of  her  shower  before  me,  but  from  eyesight 

Guarded  she  would  be  like  the  sun  were  she  seen. 

Front  door  and  back  of  the  moss'd  old  farmhouse 

Open  with  the  morn,   and  in  a  breezy  link 
Freshly  sparkles  garden  to  stripe-shadow'd  orchard, 

Green  across  a  rill  where  on  sand  the  minnows  wink. 
Busy  in  the  grass  the  early  sun  of  summer 

Swarms,  and  the  blackbird's  mellow  fluting  notes 
Call  my  darling  up  with  round  and  roguish  challenge: 

Quaintest,  richest  carol  of  all  the  singing  throats.1 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 

Cool  was  the  woodside ;    cool  as  her  white  dairy 

Keeping  sweet  the  cream-pan ;    and  there  the  boys  from 

school, 
Cricketing  below,   rush'd  brown  and  red  with  sunshine ; 

O  the  dark  translucence  of  the  deep-eyed  cool ! 
Spying  from  the  farm,  herself  she  fetch'd  a  pitcher 

Full  of  milk,  and  tilted  for  each  in  turn  the  beak. 
Then  a  little  fellow,  mouth  up  and  on  tiptoe, 

Said,  '  I  will  kiss  you  ' :  she  laugh 'd  and  lean'd  her  cheek. 

Doves  of  the  fir-wood  walling  high  our  red  roof 

Through  the  long  noon  coo,   crooning  through  the  coo. 
Loose  droop  the  leaves,   and  down  the  sleepy  roadway 

Sometimes  pipes  a  chaffinch ;    loose  droops  the  blue. 
Cows  flap  a  slow  tail  knee-deep  in  the  river, 

Breathless,   given  up  to  sun   and  gnat  and  fly. 
Nowhere  is  she  seen ;    and  if  I   see  her  nowhere, 

Lightning  may  come,   straight  rains  and  tiger  sky. 

O  the  golden  sheaf,  the  rustling  treasure-armful! 

O  the  nutbrown  tresses  nodding  interlaced! 
O  the  treasure-tresses  one  another  over 

Nodding  !    O  the  girdle  slack  about  the  waist ! 
Slain  are  the  poppies  that  shot  their  random  scarlet 

Quick  amid  the  wheat-ears :    wound  about  the  waist, 
Gather'd,  see  these  brides  of  Earth  one  blush  of  ripeness ! 

O  the  nutbrown  tresses  nodding  interlaced  ! 

Large  and  smoky  red  the  sun's  cold  disk  drops, 
Clipp'd  by  naked  hills,   on  violet  shaded  snow : 

Eastward  large  and  still  lights  up  a  bower  of  moonrise, 
Whence  at  her  leisure  steps  the  moon  aglow. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 

Nightlong  on  black  print-branches  our  beech-tree 
Gazes  in  this  whiteness :    nightlong  could  I. 

Here  may  life  on  death  or  death  on  life  be  painted. 
Let  me  clasp  her  soul  to  know  she  cannot  die ! 

Gossips  count  her  faults;    they  scour  a  narrow  chamber 

Where  there  is  no  window,  read  not  heaven  or  her. 
'When  she  was  a  tiny,'  one  aged  woman  quavers, 

Plucks  at  my  heart  and  leads  me  by  the  ear. 
Faults  she  had  once  as  she  learn'd  to  run  and  tumbled : 

Faults  of  feature  some  see,  beauty  not  complete. 
Yet,   good  gossips,   beauty  that  makes  holy 

Earth  and  air,   may  have  faults  from  head  to  feet. 

Hither  she  comes  ;    she  comes  to  me  ;    she  lingers, 

Deepens  her  brown  eyebrows,   while  in  new  surprise 
High  rise  the  lashes  in  wonder  of  a  stranger; 

Yet  am  I  the  light  and  living  of  her  eyes. 
Something  friends  have  told  her  fills  her  heart  to  brimming, 

Nets  her  in  her  blushes,   and  wounds  her,  and  tames. — 
Sure  of  her  haven,   O  like  a  dove  alighting, 

Arms  up,   she  dropp'd  :    our  souls  were  in  our  names. 

Soon  will  she  lie  like  a  white  frost  sunrise. 

Yellow  oats  and  brown  wheat,   barley  pale  as  rye, 
Long  since  your  sheaves  have  yielded  to  the  thresher, 

Felt  the  girdle  loosen'd,   seen  the  tresses  fly. 
Soon  will  she  lie  like  a  blood-red  sunset. 

Swift  with  the  to-morrow,   green-wing'd  Spring  ! 
Sing  from  the  South-west,  bring  her  back  the  truants, 

Nightingale  and  swallow,   song  and  dipping  wing. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 

Soft  new  beech-leaves,  up  to  beamy  April 

Spreading  bough  on  bough  a  primrose  mountain,  you 
Lucid  in  the  moon,  raise  lilies  to  the  skyfields, 

Youngest  green  transfused  in  silver  shining  through  : 
Fairer  than  the  lily,   than  the  wild  white  cherry: 

Fair  as  in  image  my  seraph  love  appears 
Borne  to  me  by  dreams  when  dawn  is  at  my  eyelids: 

Fair  as  in  the  flesh  she  swims  to  me  on  tears. 


Could  I  find  a  place  to  be  alone  with  heaven, 

I  would  speak  my  heart  out :    heaven  is  my  need. 
Every  woodland  tree  is  flushing  like  the  dogwood, 

Flashing  like  the  whitebeam,   swaying  like  the  reed. 
Flushing  like  the  dogwood  crimson  in  October; 

Streaming  like  the  flag-reed  South-west  blown; 
Flashing  as  in  gusts  the  sudden-lighted  whitebeam: 

All  seem  to  know  what  is  for  heaven  alone. 


77  j.          Thcebus  with  Admetus 

VVTHEN  by  Zeus  relenting  the  mandate  was  revoked, 

**        Sentencing  to  exile  the  bright  Sun-God, 
Mindful  were  the  ploughmen  of  who  the  steer  had  yoked, 

Who :    and  what  a  track  show'd  the  upturn'd  sod  ! 
Mindful  were  the  shepherds,  as  now  the  noon  severe 

Bent  a  burning  eyebrow  to  brown  evetide, 
How  the  rustic  flute  drew  the  silver  to  the  sphere, 
Sister  of  his  own,  till  her  rays  fell  wide. 
God !    of  whom  music 
And  song  and  blood  are  pure, 
The  day  is  never  darken'd 
That  had  thee  here  obscure. 
936 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 

Chirping  none,  the  scarlet  cicalas  crouch'd  in  ranks : 

Slack  the  thistle-head  piled  its  down-silk  gray: 
Scarce  the  stony  lizard  suck'd  hollows  in  his  flanks: 
Thick  on  spots  of  umbrage  our  drowsed  flocks  lay. 
Sudden  bow'd  the  chestnuts  beneath  a  wind  unheard, 

Lengthen'd  ran  the  grasses,   the  sky  grew  slate  : 
Then  amid  a  swift  flight  of  wing'd  seed  white  as  curd, 
Clear  of  limb  a  Youth  smote  the  master's  gate. 
God  !    of  whom  music 
And  song  and  blood  are  pure, 
The  day  is  never  darken'd 
That  had  thee  here  obscure. 

Water,   first  of  singers,   o'er  rocky  mount  and  mead, 

First  of  earthly  singers,   the  sun-loved  rill, 
Sang  of  him,   and  flooded  the  ripples  on  the  reed, 

Seeking  whom  to  waken  and  what  ear  fill. 
Water,  sweetest  soother  to  kiss  a  wound  and  cool, 

Sweetest  and  divinest,   the  sky-born  brook, 
Chuckled,   with  a  whimper,   and  made  a  mirror-pool 

Round  the  guest  we  welcomed,  the  strange  hand  shook. 
God  !    of  whom  music 
And  song  and  blood  are  pure, 
The  day  is  never  darken'd 
That  had  thee  here  obscure. 

Many  swarms  of  wild  bees  descended  on  our  fields: 

Stately  stood  the  wheatstalk  with  head  bent  high : 
Big  of  heart  we  labour'd  at  storing  mighty  yields, 

Wool  and  corn,  and  clusters  to  make  men  cry  ! 
Hand-like  rush'd  the  vintage;    we  strung  the  bellied  skins 

Plump,  and  at  the  sealing  the  Youth's  voice  rose: 
Maidens  clung  in  circle,  on  little  fists  their  chins; 

Gentle  beasties  through  push'd  a  cold  long  nose. 
H  h  3  937 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 

God  !    of  whom  music 
And  song  and  blood  are  pure, 
The  day  is  never  darken'd 
That  had  thee  here  obscure. 

Foot  to  fire  in  snowtime  we  trimm'd  the  slender  shaft: 

Often  down  the  pit  spied  the  lean  wolf's  teeth 
Grin  against  his  will,   trapp'd  by  masterstrokes  of  craft ; 

Helpless  in  his  froth-wrath  as  green  logs  seethe! 
Safe  the  tender  lambs  tugg'd  the  teats,  and  winter  sped 

Whirl'd  before  the  crocus,   the  year's  new  gold. 
Hung  the  hooky  beak  up  aloft,  the  arrowhead 
Redden'd  through  his  feathers  for  our  dear  fold. 
God  !    of  whom  music 
And  song  and  blood  are  pure, 
The  day  is  never  darken'd 
That  had  thee  here  obscure. 

Tales  we  drank  of  giants  at  war  with  gods  above  : 

Rocks  were  they  to  look  on,  and  earth  climb'd  air ! 
Tales  of  search  for  simples,  and  those  who  sought  of  lovi 

Ease  because  the  creature  was  all  too  fair. 
Pleasant  ran  our  thinking  that  while  our  work  was  good, 

Sure  as  fruits  for  sweat  would  the  praise  come  fast. 
He  that  wrestled  stoutest  and  tamed  the  billow-brood 
Danced  in  rings  with  girls,   like  a  sail-flapp'd  mast. 
God !    of  whom  music 
And  song  and  blood  are  pure, 
The  day  is  never  darken'd 
That  had  thee  here  obscure. 

Lo,  the  herb  of  healing,  when  once  the  herb  is  known, 
Shines  in  shady  woods  bright  as  new-sprung  flame. 

Ere  the  string  was  tighten'd  we  heard  the  mellow  tone, 
After  he  had  taught  how  the  sweet  sounds  came. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 

Itretch'd  about  his  feet,  labour  done,   'twas  as  you  see 

Red  pomegranates  tumble  and  burst  hard  rind. 
>o  began  contention  to  give  delight  and  be 
Excellent  in  things  aim'd  to  make  life  kind. 
God  !    of  whom  music 
And  song  and  blood  are  pure, 
The  day  is  never  darken'd 
That  had  thee  here  obscure. 

fou  with  shelly  horns,   rams !    and,  promontory  goats, 

You  whose  browsing  beards  dip  in  coldest  dew  ! 
3ulls,   that  walk  the  pastures  in  kingly-flashing  coats ! 

Laurel,   ivy,    vine,   wreathed  for  feasts  not  few  ! 
fou  that  build  the  shade-roof,  and  you  that  court  the  rays, 

You  that  leap  besprinkling  the  rock  stream-rent : 
:Ie  has  been  our  fellow,   the  morning  of  our  days ; 
Us  he  chose  for  housemates,   and  this  way  went. 
God  !    of  whom  music 
And  song  and  blood  are  pure, 
The  day  is  never  darken'd 
That  had  thee  here  obscure. 


774.  Tardy  Spring 

NOW  the  North  wind  ceases, 
The  warm  South-west  awakes; 
Swift  fly  the  fleeces, 
Thick  the  blossom-flakes. 

Now  hill  to  hill  has  made  the  stride, 
And  distance  waves  the  without-end : 
Now  in  the  breast  a  door  flings  wide; 
Our  farthest  smiles,  our  next  is  friend. 

939 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 

And  song  of  England's  rush  of  flowers 

Is  this  full  breeze  with  mellow  stops, 

That  spins  the  lark  for  shine,   for  showers; 

He  drinks  his  hurried  flight,   and  drops. 

The  stir  in  memory  seem  these  things, 

Which  out  of  moisten'd  turf  and  clay, 

Astrain  for  light  push  patient  rings, 

Or  leap  to  find  the  waterway. 

Tis  equal  to  a  wonder  done, 

Whatever  simple  lives  renew 

Their  tricks  beneath  the  father  sun, 

As  though  they  caught  a  broken  clue: 

So  hard  was  earth  an  eyewink  back; 

But  now  the  common  life  has  come, 

The  blotting  cloud  a  dappled  pack, 

The  grasses  one  vast  underhum. 

A  City  clothed  in  snow  and  soot, 

With  lamps  for  day  in  ghostly  rows, 

Breaks  to  the  scene  of  hosts  afoot, 

The  river  that  reflective  flows: 

And  there  did  fog  down  crypts  of  street 

Play  spectre  upon  eye  and  mouth : — 

Their  faces  are  a  glass  to  greet 

This  magic  of  the  whirl  for  South. 

A  burly  joy  each  creature  swells 

With  sound  of  its  own  hungry  quest ; 

Earth  has  to  fill  her  empty  wells, 

And  speed  the  service  of  the  nest; 

The  phantom  of  the  snow-wreath  melt, 

That  haunts  the  farmer's  look  abroad, 

Who  sees  what  tomb  a  white  night  built, 

Where  flocks  now  bleat  and  sprouts  the  clod. 

For  iron  Winter  held  her  firm; 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 

Across  her  sky  he  laid  his  hand; 
And  bird  he  starved,  he  stiffen'd  worm; 
A  sightless  heaven,  a  shaven  land. 
Her  shivering   Spring  feign'd  fast  asleep, 
The  bitten  buds  dared  not  unfold : 
We  raced  on  roads  and  ice  to  keep 
Thought  of  the  girl  we  love  from  cold. 

But  now  the  North  wind  ceases, 
The  warm  South-west  awakes, 
The  heavens  are  out  in  fleeces, 
And  earth's  green  banner  shakes. 


Love's  Grave 

\l(  ARK  where  the  pressing  wind  shoots  javelin-like, 

*•          Its  skeleton  shadow  on  the  broad-back'd  wave  ! 

Here  is  a  fitting  spot  to  dig  Love's  grave ; 

Here  where  the  ponderous  breakers  plunge  and  strike. 

And  dart  their  hissing  tongues  high  up  the  sand: 

In  hearing  of  the  ocean,  and  in  sight 

Of  those  ribb'd  wind-streaks  running  into  white. 

If  I  the  death  of  Love  had  deeply  plann'd, 

I  never  could  have  made  it  half  so  sure, 

As  by  the  unblest  kisses  which  upbraid 

The  full-waked  sense;    or  failing  that,  degrade! 

'Tis  morning  :    but  no  morning  can  restore 

What  we  have  forfeited.      I  see  no  sin  : 

The  wrong  is  mix'd.     In  tragic  life,  God  wot, 

No  villain  need  be!      Passions  spin  the  plot: 

We  are  betray'd  by  what  is  false  within. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 
776.  Lucifer  in  Starlight 

/^N  a  starr'd  night  Prince  Lucifer  uprose. 

^-^     Tired  of  his  dark  dominion  swung  the  fiend 

Above  the  rolling  ball  in  cloud  part  screen'd, 
Where  sinners  hugg'd  their  spectre  of  repose. 
Poor  prey  to  his  hot  fit  of  pride  were  those. 

And  now  upon  his  western  wing  he  lean'd, 

Now  his  huge  bulk  o'er  Afric's  sands  careen'd, 
Now  the  black  planet  shadow'd  Arctic  snows. 
Soaring  through  wider  zones  that  prick'd  his  scars 

With  memory  of  the  old  revolt  from  Awe, 
He  reach'd  a  middle  height,  and  at  the  stars, 
Which  are  the  brain  of  heaven,   he  look'd,  and  sank. 
Around  the  ancient  track  march'd,   rank  on  rank, 

The  army  of  unalterable  law. 


ALEXANDER  SMITH 

777.  Love 

1809-1867 

TTHE  fierce  exulting  worlds,  the  motes  in  rays, 

*•       The  churlish  thistles,   scented  briers, 
The  wind-swept  bluebells  on  the  sunny  braes, 
Down  to  the  central  fires, 

Exist  alike  in  Love.      Love  is  a  sea 

Filling  all  the  abysses  dim 
Of  lornest  space,  in  whose  deeps  regally 

Suns  and  their  bright  broods  swim. 

This  mighty  sea  of  Love,  with  wondrous  tides, 

Is  sternly  just  to  sun  and  grain  ; 
'Tis  laving  at  this  moment  Saturn's  sides, 

'Tis  in  my  blood  and  brain. 

94' 


ALEXANDER  SMITH 

All  things  have  something  more  than  barren  use; 

There  is  a  scent  upon  the  brier, 
A  tremulous  splendour  in  the  autumn  dews, 

Cold  morns  are  fringed  with  fire. 

The  clodded  earth  goes  up  in  sweet-breath 'd  flowers; 

In  music  dies  poor  human  speech, 
And  into  beauty  blow  those  hearts  of  ours 

When   Love  is  born  in  each. 

Daisies  are  white  upon  the  churchyard  sod, 
Sweet  tears  the  clouds  lean  down  and  give. 

The  world  is  very  lovely.      O   my  God, 
I  thank  Thee  that  I  live! 


778.  Barbara 

ON  the  Sabbath-day, 
Through  the  churchyard  old  and  gray, 
Over  the  crisp  and  yellow  leaves  I  held  my  rustling  way; 
And  amid  the  words  of  mercy,  falling  on  my  soul  like  balms, 
'Mid  the  gorgeous  storms  of  music— in  the  mellow  organ- 
calms, 

'Mid  the  upward-streaming  prayers,  and  the  rich  and  solemn 
psalms, 

I  stood  careless,  Barbara. 

My  heart  was  otherwhere, 
While  the  organ  shook  the  air, 
And   the   priest,   with   outspread  hands,    bless'd   the   people 

with  a  prayer; 

But  when  rising    to   go  homeward,  with  a  mild  and  saint- 
like  shine 

943 


ALEXANDER  SMITH 

Gleam'd   a  face  of  airy  beauty  with  its  heavenly  eyes   on 

mine — 
Gleam'd  and  vanish 'd  in  a  moment— O  that  face  was  surely 

thine 

Out  of  heaven,   Barbara  ! 

O  pallid,  pallid  face! 

0  earnest  eyes  of  grace ! 

When  last  I  saw  thee,  dearest,  it  was  in  another  place. 
You  came  running  forth  to  meet  me  with   my  love-gift  on 

your  wrist : 

The  flutter  of  a  long  white  dress,  then  all  was  lost  in  mist — 
A  purple  stain  of  agony  was  on  the  mouth  I  kiss'd, 
That  wild  morning,   Barbara. 

1  search'd,  in  my  despair, 
Sunny  noon  and  midnight  air  ; 

I  could  not  drive  away  the  thought  that  you  were  lingering 
there. 

0  many  and  many  a  winter  night  I  sat  when  you  were  gone, 
My  worn  face  buried  in  my  hands,  beside  the  fire  alone — 
Within  \he  dripping  churchyard,  the  rain  plashing  on  your 

stone, 

You  were  sleeping,   Barbara. 

'Mong  angels,  do  you  think 
Of  the  precious  golden  link 

1  clasp'd  around  your  happy  arm  while  sitting  by  yon  brink  ? 
Or  when  that  night  of  gliding  dance,  of  laughter  and  guitars, 
Was  emptied  of  its  music,  and  we  watch'd  through  lattice- 
bars 

The  silent   midnight  heaven  moving  o'er  us  with  its  ?tars, 
Till  the  day  broke,   Barbara? 


ALEXANDER  SMITH 

In  the  years  I've  changed ; 

Wild  and  far  my  heart  has  ranged, 

And  many  sins  and  errors  now  have  been  on  me  avenged; 
But  to  you  I  have  been  faithful  whatsoever  good  I  lack'd : 
I  loved  you,  and  above  my  life  still  hangs  that  love  intact — 
Your  love  the  trembling  rainbow,  I  the  reckless  cataract. 

Still  I  love  you,   Barbara. 

Yet,    Love,    I  am  unblest ; 
With  many  doubts  opprest, 

I  wander  like  the  desert  wind  without  a  place  of  rest. 
Could  I  but  win  you  for  an  hour  from  off  that  starry  shore, 
The  hunger  of  my  soul  were  still'd ;    for  Death  hath  told 

you  more 

Than  the  melancholy  world  doth  know — things  deeper  than 
all  lore 

You  could  teach  me,  Barbara. 

In  vain,  in  vain,  in  vain ! 
You  will  never  come  again. 
There   droops    upon   the  dreary  hills   a  mournful  fringe  of 

rain; 
The  gloaming   closes  slowly   round,   loud   winds  are  in   the 

tree, 
Round  selfish  shores  for  ever  moans  the  hurt  and  wounded 

sea; 

There  is  no  rest  upon  the  earth,  peace  is  with  Death  and 
thee — 
Barbara ! 


CHRISTINA  GEORGINA  ROSSETTJ 
779-  Bride  Song 

FROM    '  THE    PRINCE'S    PROGRESS ' 

1830-1804 

"POO  late  for  love,  too  late  for  joy, 
*       Too  late,  too  late! 
You  loiter'd  on  the  road  too  long, 

You  trifled  at  the  gate : 
The  enchanted  dove  upon  her  branch 

Died  without  a  mate ; 
The  enchanted  princess  in  her  tower 

Slept,  died,  behind  the  grate ; 
Her  heart  was  starving  all  this  while 

You  made  it  wait. 

Ten  years  ago,  five  years  ago, 

One  year  ago, 
Even  then  you  had  arrived  in  time, 

Though  somewhat  slow ; 
Then  you  had  known  her  living  face 

Which  now  you  cannot  know  : 
The  frozen  fountain  would  have  leap'd, 

The  buds  gone  on  to  blow, 
The  warm  south  wind  would  have  awaked 

To  melt  the  snow. 

Is  she  fair  now  as  she  lies  ? 

Once  she  was  fair ; 
Meet  queen  for  any  kingly  king, 

With  gold-dust  on  her  hair. 

946 


CHRISTINA  GEORGINA  ROSSETTI 

Now  there  are  poppies  in  her  locks, 
White  poppies  she  must  wear; 

Must  wear  a  veil  to  shroud  her  face 
And  the  want  graven  there : 

Or  is  the  hunger  fed  at  length, 
Cast  off  the  care  ? 

We  never  saw  her  with  a  smile 

Or  with  a  frown ; 
Her  bed  seem'd  never  soft  to  her, 

Though  toss'd  of  down; 
She  little  heeded  what  she  wore, 

Kirtle,   or  wreath,   or  gown; 
We  think  her  white  brows  often  ached 

Beneath  her  crown, 
Till  silvery  hairs  show'd  in  her  locks 

That  used  to  be  so  brown. 

We  never  heard  her  speak  in  haste: 

Her  tones  were  sweet, 
And  modulated  just  so  much 

As  it  was  meet : 
Her  heart  sat  silent  through  the  noise 

And  concourse  of  the  street. 
There  was  no  hurry  in  her  hands, 

No  hurry  in  her  feet; 
There  was  no  bliss  drew  nigh  to  her, 

That  she  might  run  to  greet. 

You  should  have  wept  her  yesterday, 

Wasting  upon  her  bed: 
But  wherefore  should  you  weep  to-day 

That  she  is  dead? 

947 


CHRISTINA  GEORGINA  ROSSETT1 

Lo,  we  who  love  weep  not  to-day, 

But  crown  her  royal  head. 
Let  be  these  poppies  that  we  strew, 

Your  roses  are  too  red: 
Let  be  these  poppies,  not  for  you 

Cut  down  and  spread. 


780.  A  Birthday 

AA  Y  heart  is  like  a  singing  bird 

1Y1      Whose  nest  is  in  a  water'd  shoot; 

My  heart  is  like  an  apple-tree 

Whose  boughs  are  bent  with  thick-set  fruit  j 
My  heart  is  like  a  rainbow  shell 

That  paddles  in  a  halcyon  sea  ; 
My  heart  is  gladder  than  all  these, 

Because  my  love  is  come  to  me. 

Raise  me  a  dai's  of  silk  and  down ; 

Hang  it  with  vair  and  purple  dyes; 
Carve  it  in  doves  and  pomegranates, 

And  peacocks  with  a  hundred  eyes ; 
Work  it  in  gold  and  silver  grapes, 

In  leaves  and  silver  fleurs-de-lys ; 
Because  the  birthday  of  my  life 

Is  come,  my  love  is  come  to  me. 


7  8 1.  Song 

I  am  dead,  my  dearest, 
Sing  no  sad  songs  for  me  ; 
Plant  thou  no  roses  at  my  head, 

Nor  shady  cypress  tree: 
948 


CHRISTINA  GEORGINA  ROSSETTI 

Be  the  green  grass  above  me 

With  showers  and  dewdrops  wet; 

And  if  thou  wilt,  remember, 
And  if  thou  wilt,  forget. 

I  shall  not  see  the  shadows, 

I  shall  not  feel  the  rain ; 
I   shall  not  hear  the  nightingale 

Sing  on,   as  if  in  pain ; 
And  dreaming  through  the  twilight 

That  doth  not  rise  nor  set, 
Haply  I  may  remember, 

And  haply  may  forget. 


782.  Twice 

I    TO  OK  my  heart  in  my  hand 
(O  my  love,   O  my  love), 
I  said:    Let  me  fall  or  stand, 

Let  me  live  or  die, 
But  this  once  hear  me  speak 

(O  my  love,   O  my  love) — 
Yet  a  woman's  words  are  weak; 
You  should  speak,  not  I. 

You  took  my  heart  in  your  hand 

With  a  friendly  smile, 
With  a  critical  eye  you  scann'd, 

Then  set  it  down, 
And  said,   'It  is  still  unripe, 

Better  wait  awhile ; 
Wait  while  the  skylarks  pipe, 

Till  the  corn  grows  brown/ 

949 


CHRISTINA  GEORGINA  ROSSETTI 

As  you  set  it  down  it  broke — 

Broke,  but  I  did  not  wince; 
I  smiled  at  the  speech  you  spoke, 

At  your  judgement  I  heard: 
But  I  have  not  often  smiled 

Since  then,  nor  question'd  since, 
Nor  cared  for  cornflowers  wild, 

Nor  sung  with  the  singing  bird. 

I  take  my  heart  in  my  hand, 

O  my  God,   O  my  God, 
My  broken  heart  in  my  hand: 

Thou  hast  seen,  judge  Thou. 
My  hope  was  written  on  sand, 

0  my  God,  O  my  God: 
Now  let  thy  judgement  stand — 

Yea,  judge  me  now. 

This  contemn'd  of  a  man, 

This  marr'd  one  heedless  day, 
This  heart  take  thou  to  scan 

Both  within  and  without: 
Refine  with  fire  its  gold, 

Purge  Thou  its  dross  away — 
Yea,  hold  it  in  Thy  hold, 

Whence  none  can  pluck  it  out. 

I  take  my  heart  in  my  hand — 

1  shall  not  die,   but  live — 
Before  Thy  face  I  stand; 

I,   for  Thou  callest  such : 
All  that  I  have  I  bring, 

All  that  I  am  I  give, 
Smile  Thou  and   I  shall  sing, 

But  shall  not  question  much. 


CHRISTINA  GEORGINA  ROSSETTI 


783.  Uphill 

p\OES  the  road  wind  uphill  all  the  way? 
*~"      Yes,   to  the  very  end. 

Will  the  day's  journey  take  the  whole  long  day? 
From  morn  to  night,  my  friend. 

But  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting-place? 

A  roof  for  when  the  slow,  dark  hours  begin. 
May  not  the  darkness  hide  it  from  my  face? 

You  cannot  miss  that  inn. 

Shall   I   meet  other  wayfarers  at  night  ? 

Those  who  have  gone  before. 
Then  must  I  knock,  or  call  when  just  in  sight  ? 

They  will  not  keep  you  waiting  at  that  door. 

Shall  I  find  comfort,  travel-sore  and  weak  ? 

Of  labour  you  shall  find  the  sum. 
Will  there  be  beds  for  me  and  all  who  seek  ? 

Yea,   beds  for  all  who  come. 


7 #4.  Tass'mg  Away 

PASSING  away,   saith  the  World,  passing  away: 
Chances,   beauty  and  youth  sapp'd  day  by  day: 
Thy  life  never  continueth  in  one  stay. 
Is  the  eye  waxen  dim,  is  the  dark  hair  changing  to  gray 
That  hath  won  neither  laurel  nor  bay? 
I  shall  clothe  myself  in   Spring  and  bud  in  May: 
Thou,   root-stricken,  shalt  not  rebuild  thy  decay 
On  my  bosom  for  aye. 
Then  I  answer'd:    Yea. 

95' 


CHRISTINA  GEORGINA  ROSSETTI 

Passing  away,  saith  my  Soul,  passing  away: 

With  its  burden  of  fear  and  hope,  of  labour  and  play, 

Hearken  what  the  past  doth  witness  and  say: 

Rust  in  thy  gold,  a  moth  is  in  thine  array, 

A  canker  is  in  thy  bud,  thy  leaf  must  decay. 

At  midnight,  at  cockcrow,  at  morning,  one   certain  day, 

Lo,  the  Bridegroom  shall  come  and  shall  not  delay : 

Watch  thou  and  pray. 

Then  I  answer'd  :    Yea. 

Passing  away,   saith  my  God,  passing  away: 

Winter  passeth  after  the  long  delay: 

New  grapes  on  the  vine,  new  figs  on  the  tender  spray, 

Turtle  calleth  turtle  in  Heaven's  May. 

Though  I  tarry,  wait  for  me,  trust  me,  watch  and  pray. 

Arise,   come  away ;    night  is  past,   and  lo,   it  is  day ; 

My  love,  my  sister,  my  spouse,  thou  shall  hear  me  say — 

Then  I  answer'd :    Yea. 


78?.  Marvel  of  Marvels 

]WT  ARVEL  of  marvels,  if  I  myself  shall  behold 
1V1     \Vith  mine  own  eyes  my  King  in  His  city  of  gold  ; 
Where  the  least  of  Iambs  is  spotless  white  in  the  fold, 
Where  the  least  and  last  of  saints  in  spotless  white  is  stoled, 
Where  the  dimmest  head  beyond  a  moon  is  aureoled. 
O  saints,  my  beloved,  now  mouldering  to  mould  in  the  mould, 
Shall  I  see  you  lift  your  heads,  see  your  cerements  unroll'd, 
See  with  these  very  eyes?    who  now  in  darkness  and  cold 
Tremble  for  the  midnight  cry,  the  rapture,  the  tale  untold, — 
The  Bridegroom  cometh,   comelh,   His  Bride  to  enfold! 

Cold  it  is,   my  beloved,   since  your  funeral  bell  was  toll'd: 
Cold  it  is,   O  my  King,  how  cold  alone  on  the  wold ! 


CHRISTINA  GEORGINA  ROSSETTI 


786.     fs  it  Well  with  the  Child? 

CAFE  where  I  cannot  die  yet, 
^      Safe  where  I  hope  to  lie  too, 
Safe  from  the  fume  and  the  fret} 
You,  and  you, 

Whom   I   never  forget. 
Safe  from  the  frost  and  the  snow, 

Safe  from  the  storm  and  the  sun. 
Safe  where  the  seeds  wait  to  grow 
One  by  one, 

And  to  come  back  in  blow. 


787.  Remember 

D  EMEMBER  me  when  I  am  gone  away, 

*^      Gone  far  away  into  the  silent  land; 
When  you  can  no  more  hold  me  by  the  hand, 

Nor  I  half  turn  to  go,   yet  turning  stay. 

Remember  me  when  no  more  day  by  day 
You  tell  me  of  our  future  that  you  plann'd  : 
Only  remember  me ;    you  understand 

It  will  be  late  to  counsel  then  or  pray. 

Yet  if  you  should  forget  me  for  a  while 
And  afterwards  remember,   do  not  grieve: 
For  if  the  darkness  and  corruption  leave 
A  vestige  of  the  thoughts  that  once  I  had, 

Better  by  far  you  should  forget  and  smile 
Than  that  you  should  remember  and  be  sad. 


CHRISTINA  GEORGINA  ROSSETTI 

788.  Aloof 

"THE  irresponsive  silence  of  the  land, 

The  irresponsive  sounding  of  the  sea, 

Speak  both  one  message  of  one  sense  to  me : — 
Aloof,  aloof,  we  stand  aloof,   so  stand 
Thou  too  aloof,  bound  with  the  flawless  band 

Of  inner  solitude ;    we  bind  not  thee ; 

But  who  from  thy  self-chain  shall  set  thee  free  ? 
What  heart  shall  touch  thy  heart  ?    What  hand  thy  hand  ? 
And  I  am  sometimes  proud  and  sometimes  meek, 

And  sometimes  I   remember  days  of  old 
When  fellowship  seem'd  not  so  far  to  seek, 

And  all  the  world  and  I  seem'd  much  less  cold, 

And  at  the  rainbow's  foot  lay  surely  gold, 
And  hope  felt  strong,  and  life  itself  not  weak. 


789.  Rest 

f~\   EARTH,   lie  heavily  upon  her  eyes; 

^ —       Seal  her  sweet  eyes  weary  of  watching,   Earth 

Lie  close  around  her ;    leave  no  room  for  mirth 
With  its  harsh  laughter,   nor  for  sound  of  sighs. 
She  hath  no  questions,  she  hath  no  replies, 

Hush'd  in  and  curtain'd  with  a  blessed  dearth 

Of  all  that  irk'd  her  from  the  hour  of  birth ; 
With  stillness  that  is  almost  Paradise. 
Darkness  more  clear  than  noonday  holdeth  her, 

Silence  more  musical  than  any  song; 
Even  her  very  heart  has  ceased  to  stir: 
Until  the  morning  of  Eternity 
Her  rest  shall  not  begin  nor  end,  but  be ; 

And  when  she  wakes  she  will  not  think  it  long. 
954 


THOMAS    EDWARD   BROWN 

7po.  Dora 

1830-1897 

CHE  knelt  upon  her  brother's  grave, 
^  My  little  girl  of  six  years  old — 
He  used  to  be  so  good  and  brave, 

The  sweetest  lamb  of  all  our  fold  : 
He  used  to  shout,   he  used  to  sing, 
Of  all  our  tribe  the  little  king — 
And  so  unto  the  turf  her  ear  she  laid, 
To  hark  if  still  in  that  dark  place  he  play'd. 

No  sound  !    no  sound  ! 

Death's  silence  was  profound ; 

And  horror  crept 

Into  her  aching  heart,   and  Dora  wept. 

If  this  is  as  it  ought  to  be, 

My  God,    I   leave  it  unto  Thee. 

79 1.  Jessie 

YVYHEN  Jessie  comes  with  her  soft  breast, 

**        And  yields  the  golden  keys, 
Then  is  it  as  if  God  caress'd 

Twin  babes  upon   His  knees — 
Twin  babes  that,   each  to  other  press'd, 
Just  feel  the  Father's  arms,  wherewith  they  both  are  bless'd. 

But  when   I   think  if  we  must  part, 

And  all  this  personal  dream  be  fled — 
O  then  my  heart!    O  then  my  useless  heart! 

Would  God  that  thou  wert  dead — 
A  clod  insensible  to  joys  and  ills — 
A  stone  remote  in  some  bleak  gully  of  the  hills ! 

955 


THOMAS  EDWARD  BROWN 


792.  Salve ! 

TTO  live  within  a  cave — it  is  most  good; 
*•      But,  if  God  make  a  day, 

And  some  one  come,  and  say, 
*  Lo !    I  have  gather'd  faggots  in  the  wood  ! ' 

E'en  let  him  stay, 

And  light  a  fire,  and  fan  a  temporal  mood! 
So  sit  till  morning !    when  the  light  is  grown 

That  he  the  path  can  read, 

Then  bid  the  man  God-speed  ! 
His  morning  is  not  thine :    yet  must  thou  own 
They  have  a  cheerful  warmth — those  ashes  on  the  stone. 


Tp$.  My  Garden 

A  GARDEN  is  a  lovesome  thing,  God  wotl 
**•     Rose  plot, 

Fringed  pool, 
Fern'd  grot — 

The  veriest  school 

Of  peace;    and  yet  the  fool 
Contends  that  God  is  not — 
Not  God !    in  gardens !    when  the  eve  is  cool  ? 

Nay,   but  I  have  a  sign ; 

'Tis  very  sure  God  walks  in  mine. 


EDWARD  ROBERT  BULWER  LYTTON, 
EARL  OF  LYTTON 

7P4.  A  Night  in  Italy 

C  WEET  are  the  rosy  memories  of  the  lips 

*"*     That  first  kiss'd  ours,  albeit  they  kiss  no  more : 

Sweet  is  the  sight  of  sunset-sailing  ships, 
Altho'  they  leave  us  on  a  lonely  shore : 

Sweet  are  familiar  songs,  tho'  Music  dips 

Her  hollow  shell  in  Thought's   forlornest  wells: 
And  sweet,  tho'  sad,  the  sound  of  midnight  bells 

When  the  oped  casement  with  the  night-rain  drips. 

There  is  a  pleasure  which  is  born  of  pain  : 

The  grave  of  all  things  hath  its  violet. 
Else  why,   thro'  days  which  never  come  again, 

Roams  Hope  with  that  strange  longing,  like    Regret? 
Why  put  the  posy  in  the  cold  dead  hand  ? 

Why  plant  the  rose  above  the  lonely  grave  ? 

Why  bring  the  corpse  across  the  salt  sea-wave  ? 
Why  deem  the  dead  more  near  in  native  land? 

Thy  name  hath  been  a  silence  in  my  life 

So  long,   it  falters  upon  language  now, 
O  more  to  me  than  sister  or  than  wife 

Once  .  .  .  and  now — nothing  !     It  is  hard  to  know 
That  such  things  have  been,  and  are  not;    and  yet 

Life  loiters,  keeps  a  pulse  at  even  measure, 

And  goes  upon  its  business  and  its  pleasure, 
And  knows  not  all  the  depths  of  its  regret.  .  .  . 

957 


EARL  OF  LYTTON 

Ah,  could  the  memory  cast  her  spots,  as  do 

The  snake's  brood  theirs  in  spring !    and  be  once  more 

Wholly  renew'd,  to  dwell  i'  the  time  that's  new, 
With  no  reiterance  of  those  pangs  of  yore. 

Peace,  peace !    My  wild  song  will  go  wandering 
Too  wantonly,  down  paths  a  private  pain 
Hath  trodden  bare.     What  was  it  jarr'd  the  strain  ? 

Some  crush'd  illusion,  left  with  crumpled  wing 

Tangled  in  Music's  web  of  twined  strings — 

That  started  that  false  note,  and  crack'd  the  tune 

In  its  beginning.      Ah,   forgotten  things 

Stumble  back  strangely  !    and  the  ghost  of  June 

Stands  by  December's  fire,  cold,  cold  !  and  puts 
The  last  spark  out. — How  could  I  sing  aright 
With  those  old  airs  haunting  me  all  the  night 

And  those  old  steps  that  sound  when  daylight  shuts  ? 

For  back  she  comes,  and  moves  reproachfully, 
The  mistress  of  my  moods,  and  looks  bereft 

(Cruel  to  the  last!)    as  tho'  'twere  I,   not  she, 
That  did  the  wrong,  and  broke  the  spell,  and  left 

Memory  comfortless. — Away  !    away  ! 

Phantoms,  about  whose  brows  the  bindweed  clings, 
Hopeless  regret!    In  thinking  of  these  things 

Some  men  have  lost  their  minds,  and  others  may. 

Yet,   O  for  one  deep  draught  in  this  dull  hour ! 

One  deep,  deep  draught  of  the  departed  time  ! 
O  for  one  brief  strong  pulse  of  ancient  power, 

To  beat  and  breathe  thro'  all  the  valves  of  rhyme! 
Thou,  Memory,  with  thy  downward  eyes,  that  art 

The  cup-bearer  of  gods,  pour  deep  and  long, 

Brim  all  the  vacant  chalices  of  song 
With  health !    Droop  down  thine  urn.     I  hold  my  heart 
958 


EARL  OF  LYTTON 

One  draught  of  what  I  shall  not  taste  again 

Save  when  my  brain  with  thy  dark  wine  is  brimm'd, — 

One  draught !    and  then  straight  onward,  spite  of  pain, 
And  spite  of  all  things  changed,  with  gaze  undimm'd, 

Love's  footsteps  thro'  the  waning  Past  to  explore 
Undaunted ;    and  to  carve  in  the  wan  light 
Of  Hope's  last  outposts,  on  Song's  utmost  height, 

The  sad  resemblance  of  an  hour  or  more. 

Midnight,   and  love,   and  youth,   and  Italy  ! 

Love  in  the  land  where  love  most  lovely  seems  ! 
Land  of  my  love,  tho'  I  be  far  from  thee, 

Lend,  for  love's  sake,  the  light  of  thy  moonbeams, 
The  spirit  of  thy  cypress-groves  and  all 

Thy  dark-eyed  beauty  for  a  little  while 

To  my  desire.     Yet  once  more  let  her  smile 
Fall  o'er  me  :    o'er  me  let  her  long  hair  fall.  .  .  . 
Under  the  blessed  darkness  unreproved 

We  were  alone,  in  that  best  hour  of  time 
Which  first  reveal'd  to  us  how  much  we  loved, 

'Neath  the  thick  starlight.     The  young  night  sublime 
Hung  trembling  o'er  us.     At  her  feet  I  knelt, 

And  gazed  up  from  her  feet  into  her  eyes. 

Her  face  was  bow'd  :    we  breathed  each  other's  sighs : 
We  did  not  speak  :    not  move  :    we  look'd :    we  felt. 
The  night  said  not  a  word.     The  breeze  was  dead. 

The  leaf  lay  without  whispering  on  the  tree, 
As  I  lay  at  her  feet.     Droop'd  was  her  head: 

One  hand  in  mine  :    and  one  still  pensively 
Went  wandering  through  my  hair.     We  were  together. 

How  ?    Where  ?    What  matter  ?   Somewhere  in  a  dream, 

Drifting,   slow  drifting  down  a  wizard  stream  : 
Whither?   Together:    then  what  matter  whither? 

959 


EARL  OF  LYTTON 

It  was  enough  for  me  to  clasp  her  hand: 

To  blend  with  her  love-looks  my  own  :    no  more. 

Enough  (with  thoughts  like  ships  that  cannot  land, 
Blown  by  faint  winds  about  a  magic  shore) 

To  realize,  in  each  mysterious  feeling, 

The  droop  of  the  warm  cheek  so  near  my  owns 
The  cool  white  arm  about  my  shoulder  thrown : 

Those  exquisite  fair  feet  where  I  was  kneeling. 


How  little  know  they  life's  divinest  bliss, 

That  know  not  to  possess  and  yet  refrain ! 
Let  the  young  Psyche  roam,  a  fleeting  kiss : 

Grasp  it — a  few  poor  grains  of  dust  remain. 
See  how  those  floating  flowers,  the  butterflies, 

Hover  the  garden  thro',  and  take  no   root ! 

Desire  for  ever  hath  a  flying  foot : 
Free  pleasure  comes  and  goes  beneath  the  skies. 

Close  not  thy  hand  upon  the  innocent  joy 

That  trusts  itself  within  thy  reach.     It  may, 
Or  may  not,  linger.     Thou  canst  but  destroy 

The  winged  wanderer.     Let  it  go  or  stay. 
Love  thou  the  rose,  yet  leave  it  on  its  stem. 

Think  !    Midas  starved  by  turning  all  to  gold. 

Blessed  are  those  that  spare,  and  that  withhold ; 
Because  the  whole  world  shall  be  trusted  them. 


The  foolish  Faun  pursues  the  unwilling  Nymph 
That  culls  her  flowers  beside  the  precipice 

Or  dips  her  shining  ankles  in  the  lymph  : 
But,  just  when  she  must  perish  or  be  his, 
960 


EARL  OF  LYTTON 

Heaven  puts  an  arm  out.     She  is  sate.     The  shore 
Gains  some  new  fountain;    or  the  lilied  lawn 
A  rarer  sort  of  rose  :    but  ah,  poor  Faun ! 

To  thee  she  shall  be  changed  for  evermore. 


Chase  not  too  close  the  fading  rapture.     Leave 
To  Love  his  long  auroras,   slowly  seen. 

Be  ready  to  release  as  to  receive. 

Deem  those  the  nearest,  soul  to  soul,  between 

Whose  lips  yet  lingers  reverence  on  a  sigh. 

Judge  what  thy  sense  can  reach  not,  most  thine 
If  once  thy  soul  hath  seized  it.     The  unknown 

Is  life  to  love,  religion,  poetry. 

The  moon  had  set.     There  was  not  any  light, 

Save  of  the  lonely  legion'd  watch-stars  pale 
In  outer  air,  and  what  by  fits  made  bright 

Hot  oleanders  in  a  rosy  vale 
Search'd  by  the  lamping  fly,  whose  little  spark 

Went  in  and  out,  like  passion's  bashful  hope. 

Meanwhile  the  sleepy  globe  began  to  slope 
A  ponderous  shoulder  sunward  thro'  the  dark. 

And  the  night  pass'd  in  beauty  like  a  dream. 

Aloof  in  those  dark  heavens  paused  Destiny, 
With  her  last  star  descending  in  the  gleam 

Of  the  cold  morrow,  from  the  emptied  sky. 
The  hour,  the  distance  from  her  old  self,  all 

The  novelty  and  loneness  of  the  place 

Had  left  a  lovely  awe  on  that  fair  face, 
And  all  the  land  grew  strange  and  magical. 

li  9* 


EARL  OF  LYTTON 

As  droops  some  billowy  cloud  to  the  crouch'd   hill, 

Heavy  with  all  heaven's  tears,   for  all  earth's  care, 
She  droop'd  unto  me,   without  force  or  will, 

And  sank  upon  my  bosom,   murmuring  there 
A  woman's  inarticulate  passionate  words. 

O  moment  of  all  moments  upon  earth ! 

O  life's  supreme  !      How  worth,   how  wildly  worth, 
Whole  worlds  of  flame,   to  know  this  world  affords. 

What  even   Eternity  can  not  restore  ! 

When  all  the  ends  of  life  take  hands  and  meet 
Round  centres  of  sweet  fire.     Ah,   never  more, 

Ah  never,  shall  the  bitter  with  the  sweet 
Be  mingled  so  in  the  pale  after-years  ! 

One  hour  of  life  immortal  spirits  possess. 

This  drains  the  world,  and  leaves  but  weariness, 
And  parching  passion,   and  perplexing  tears. 

Sad  is  it,   that  we  cannot  even  keep 

That  hour  to  sweeten  life's  last  toil :   but  Youth 
Grasps  all,   and  leaves  us  :    and  when  we  would  weep, 

We  dare  not  let  our  tears  fall,   lest,   in  truth, 
They  fall  upon  our  work  which  must  be  done. 

And  so  we  bind  up  our  torn  hearts  from  breaking : 

Our  eyes  from  weeping,  and  our  brows  from  aching ; 
And  follow  the  long  pathway  all  alone. 


7p?.  The  Last  Wish 

SINCE  all  that  I  can  ever  do  for  thee 
Is  to  do  nothing,   this  my  prayer  must  be; 
That  thou  mayst  never  guess  nor  ever  see 
The  all-endured  this  nothing-done  costs  me. 
96* 


JAMES  THOMSON 

796.  fn  the  Train 

1834-188 

AS  we  rush,  as  we  rush  in  the  Train, 
•**•     The  trees  and  the  houses  go  wheeling  back, 
But  the  starry  heavens  above  the  plain 
Come  flying  on  our  track. 

All  the  beautiful  stars  of  the  sky, 

The  silver  doves  of  the  forest  of  Night, 

Over  the  dull  earth  swarm  and  fly, 
Companions  of  our  flight. 

We  will  rush  ever  on  without  fear ; 

Let  the  goal  be  far,   the  flight  be  fleet ! 
For  we  carry  the  Heavens  with  us,   dear, 

While  the  Earth  slips  from  our  feet! 


Sunday  up  the  River 

Y  love  o'er  the  water  bends  dreaming  ; 

It  glideth  and  glideth  away : 
She  sees  there  her  own  beauty,  gleaming 
Through  shadow  and  ripple  and  spray. 


M 


O  tell  her,   thou  murmuring  river, 
As  past  her  your  light  wavelets  roll, 

How   steadfast  that  image  for  ever 

Shines  pure  in  pure  depths  of  my  soul. 

963 


JAMES  THOMSON 


7?8.  Gifts 

/^  IVE  a  man  a  horse  he  can  ride, 
^-^      Give  a  man  a  boat  he  can  sail ; 
And  his  rank  and  wealth,   his  strength  and  health, 
On  sea  nor  shore  shall  fail. 

Give  a  man  a  pipe  he  can  smoke, 

Give  a  man  a  book  he  can  read  : 
And  his  home  is  bright  with  a  calm  delight, 

Though  the  room  be  poor  indeed. 

Give  a  man  a  girl  he  can  love, 

As  I,   O  my  love,  love  thee  ; 
And  his  heart  is  great  with  the  pulse  of  Fate, 

At  home,  on  land,  on  sea. 


7pp.  The  fine 

HTHE  wine  of  Love  is  music, 
*       And  the  feast  of  Love  is  song: 
And  when  Love  sits  down  to  the  banquet. 
Love  sits  long  : 

Sits  long  and  arises  drunken, 

But  not  with  the  feast  and  the  wine  j 
He  reeleth  with  his  own  heart, 
Tnat  great,   rich  Vine. 


WILLIAM  MORRIS 

800.  Summer  'Dawn 

1834-1896 

DRAY  but  one  prayer  for  me  'twixt  thy  closed  lips, 
*•        Think  but  one  thought  of  me  up  in  the  stars. 
The  summer  night  waneth,   the  morning  light  slips 

Faint  and  gray  'twixt  the  leaves  of  the   aspen,  betwixt 

the  cloud-bars, 
That  are  patiently  waiting  there  for  the  dawn  : 

Patient  and  colourless,   though   Heaven's  gold 
Waits  to  float  through  them  along  with  the  sun. 
Far  out  in  the  meadows,   above  the  young  corn, 

The  heavy  elms  wait,   and  restless  and  cold 
The  uneasy  wind  rises  ;    the  roses  are  dun  ; 
Through  the  long  twilight  they  pray  for  the  dawn 
Round  the  lone  house  in  the  midst  of  the  corn. 
Speak  but  one  word  to  me  over  the  corn, 
Over  the  tender,   bow'd  locks  of  the  corn. 

8 01.  Love  is  enough 

LOVE  is  enough:    though  the  World  be  a-waning, 
And  the  woods  have  no  voice  but  the  voice  of"  com- 
plaining, 

Though  the  sky  be  too  dark  for  dim  eyes  to  discover 
The  gold-cups  and  daisies  fair  blooming  thereunder, 
Though  the  hills  be  held  shadows,  and  the  sea  a  dark  wonder, 

And  this  day  draw  a  veil  over  all  deeds  pass'd  over, 
Yet  their  hands  shall  not  tremble,  their  feet  shall  not  falter ; 
The  void  shall  not  weary,   the  fear  shall  not  alter 

These  lips  and  these  eyes  of  the  loved  and  the  lover. 

965 


WILLIAM  MORRIS 


802.     The  Nymph's  Song  to  Hylas 

T    KNOW  a  little  garden-close 
*•      Set  thick  with  lily  and  red  rose, 
Where  I  would  wander  if  I   might 
From  dewy  dawn  to  dewy  night, 
And  have  one  with   me  wandering. 

And  though  within  it  no  birds  sing, 
And  though  no  pillar'd  house  is  there. 
And  though  the  apple  boughs  are  bare 
Of  fruit  and  blossom,  would  to  God, 
Her  feet  upon  the  green  grass  trod, 
And  I  beheld  them  as  before! 

There  comes  a  murmur  from  the  shore, 
And  in  the  place  two  fair  streams  are, 
Drawn  from  the  purple  hills  afar, 
Drawn  down  unto  the  restless  sea; 
The  hills  whose  flowers  ne'er  fed  the  bee, 
The  shore  no  ship  has  ever  seen, 
Still  beaten  by  the  billows  green, 
Whose  murmur  comes  unceasingly 
Unto  the  place  for  which   I   cry. 

For  which   I   cry   both  day  and  night, 
For  which   I   let  slip  all  delight, 
That  maketh  me  both  deaf  and  blind, 
Careless  to  win,  unskill'd  to  find, 
And  quick  to  lose  what  all  men  seek. 

Yet  tottering  as  I  am,  and  weak, 
Still  have  I   left  a  little  breath 
To  seek  within  the  jaws  of  death 


WILLIAM  MORRIS 

An  entrance  to  that  happy  place; 

To  seek  the  unforgotten  face 

Once  seen,  once  kiss'd,  once  reft  from  me 

Anigh  the  murmuring  of  the  sea. 


RODEN  BERKELEY  WRIOTHESLEY  NOEL 

80$.   The  Water- Nymph  and  the  Boy 

1834-1894 

T    FLUNG  me  round  him, 
•*•      I  drew  him  under ; 
I   clung,   I  drown'd  him, 
My  own  white  wonder !   .  .   . 

Father  and  mother, 
Weeping  and  wild, 
Came  to  the  forest, 
Calling  the  child, 
Came  from  the  palace, 
Down  to  the  pool, 
Calling  my  darling, 
My  beautiful ! 
Under  the  water, 
Cold  and  so  pale! 
Could  it  be  love  made 
Beauty  to  fail  ? 

Ah  me  for  mortals  ! 
In  a  few  moons, 
If  I  had  left  him, 
After  some  Junes 


HON.  RODEN  NOEL 

He  would  have  faded, 

Faded  away, 

He,  the  young  monarch,  whom 

All  would  obey, 

Fairer  than  day  ; 

Alien  to  springtime, 

Joyless  and  gray, 

He  would  have  faded, 

Faded  away, 

Moving  a  mockery, 

Scorn'd  of  the  day ! 

Now  I   have  taken  him 

All  in  his  prime, 

Saved   from  slow  poisoning 

Pitiless  Time, 

Fill'd  with  his  happiness, 

One  with  the  prime, 

Saved  from  the  cruel 

Dishonour  of  Time. 

Laid  him,   my  beautiful, 

Laid  him  to  rest, 

Loving,  adorable, 

Softly  to  rest, 

Here   in  my  crystalline, 

Here  in  my  breast ! 


The  Old 

"""THEY  are  waiting  on  the  shore 

For  the  bark  to  take  them  home 
They  will  toil  and  grieve  no  more ; 
The  hour  for  release  hath  come. 


HON.  RODEN  NOEL 

All  their  long  life  lies  behind 
Like  a  dimly  blending  dream : 

There  is  nothing  left  to  bind 
To  the  realms  that  only  seem. 

They  are  waiting  for  the  boat; 

There  is  nothing  left  to  do : 
What  was  near  them  grows  remote, 

Happy  silence  falls  like  dew; 
Now  the  shadowy  bark  is  come, 
And  the  weary  may  go  home. 

By  still  water  they  would  rest 
In  the  shadow  of  the  tree . 

After  battle  sleep  is  best, 
After  noise,  tranquillity. 


THOMAS   ASHE 

80?.    Meet  We  no  Angels,  Tansie? 

1856-1889 

CAME,   on  a  Sabbath  noon,  my  sweet, 
In  white,  to  find  her  lover ; 
The  grass  grew   proud  beneath  her  feet, 
The  green  elm-leaves  above  her: — 
Meet  we  no  angels,  Pansie? 

She  said,   'We  meet  no  angels  now'; 

And  soft  lights  stream'd  upon  her; 
And  with  white  hand  she  touch 'd  a  bough; 

She  did  it  that  great  honour:— 
What!    meet  no  angels,  Pansie? 

li.  <* 


THOMAS  ASHE 

O  sweet  brown  hat,  brown  hair,  brown  eyes, 
Down-dropp'd  brown  eyes,  so  tender ! 

Then  what  said  I  ?     Gallant  replies 

Seem  flattery,  and  offend  her:  — 

But — meet  no  angels,   Pansie? 

806.  To  Two  Bereaved 

VOU  must  be  sad;    for  though  it  is  to  Heaven, 
•*•       'Tis  hard  to  yield  a  little  girl  of  seven. 
Alas,   for  me  'tis  hard  my  grief  to  rule, 
Who  only  met  her  as  she  went  to  school; 
Who  never  heard  the  little  lips  so  sweet 
Say  even   'Good  morning,'  though  our  eyes  would  meet 
As  whose  would  fain  be  friends !    How  must  you  sigh, 
Sick  for  your  loss,  when  even  so  sad  am  I, 
Who  never  clasp'd  the  small  hands  any  day ! 
Fair  flowers  thrive  round  the  little  grave,   I  pray. 


THEODORE  WATTS-DUNTON 
807.   Wassail  Chorus  at  the  Mermaid  Tavern 

b.  1836 

CHRISTMAS  knows  a  merry,  merry  place, 
^^     Where  he  goes  with  fondest  face, 

Brightest  eye,  brightest  hair: 
Tell  the  Mermaid  where  is  that  one  place, 

Where  ? 
Raleigh. 

'Tis  by  Devon's  glorious  halls, 

Whence,  dear  Ben,   I  come  again : 
Bright  of  golden  roofs  and  walls — 

El  Dorado's  rare  domain — 


THEODORE  WATTS-DUNTON 

Seem  those  halls  when  sunlight  launches 
Shafts  of  gold  thro'  leafless  branches, 
Where  the  winter's  feathery  mantle  blanches 

Field  and  farm  and  lane. 
CHORUS.     Christmas  knows  a  merry,  merry  place,   &c. 

Dray  ton. 

'Tis  where  Avon's  wood-sprites  weave 
Through  the  boughs  a  lace  of  rime, 
While  the  bells  of  Christmas  Eve 

Fling  for  Will  the  Stratford-chime 
O'er  the  river-flags  emboss'd 
Rich  with  flowery  runes  of  frost — 
O'er  the  meads  where  snowy  tufts  are  toss'd — 

Strains  of  olden  time. 
CHORUS.     Christmas  knows  a  merry,  merry  place,  &c. 

Shakespeare 's  Friend. 

'Tis,   methinks,  on  any  ground 

Where  our  Shakespeare's  feet  are  set. 
There  smiles  Christmas,   holly-crown'd 

With  his  blithest  coronet : 
Friendship's  face  he  loveth  well: 
'Tis  a  countenance  whose  spell 
Sheds  a  balm  o'er  every  mead  and  dell 

Where  we  used  to  fret. 
CHORUS.     Christmas  knows  a  merry,  merry  place,  &c. 

Heywood. 

More  than  all  the  pictures,   Ben, 

Winter  weaves  by  wood  or  stream, 
Christmas  loves  our  London,   when 
Rise  thy  clouds  of  wassail-steam — 

97' 


THEODORE  WATTS-DUNTON 

Clouds  like  these,  that,   curling,  take 
Forms  of  faces  gone,  and  wake 
Many  a  lay  from  lips  we  loved,   and  make 

London  like  a  dream. 
CHORUS.     Christmas  knows  a  merry,   merry  place,   &c. 

Ben  Jon  son. 

Love's  old  songs  shall  never  die, 
Yet  the  new  shall  suffer  proof: 
Love's  old  drink  of  Yule  brew  I 
Wassail  for  new  love's  behoof. 
Drink  the  drink  I  brew,   and  sing 
Till  the  berried  branches  swing, 
Till  our  song  make  all  the  Mermaid  ring — 
Yea,   from   rush  to  roof. 

FINALE. 

Christmas  loves  this  merry,   merry  place; 
Christmas  saith  with  fondest  face, 

Brightest  eye,  brightest  hair: 
'  Ben,  the  drink  tastes  rare  of  sack  and  mace  : 
Rare  ! ' 

ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 
808.          Chofus  from  '  Atalanta  ' 

b.  1837 
YVYHEN  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on  winter's  traces, 

The  mother  of  months  in  meadow  or  plain 
Fills  the  shadows  and  windy  places 

With  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of  rain  ; 
And  the  brown  bright  nightingale  amorous 
Is  half  assuaged  for  Itylus, 
For  the  Thracian  ships  and  the  foreign  faces. 
The  tongueless  vigil,  and  all  the  pain. 
97» 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

Come  with  bows  bent  and  with  emptying  of  quivers, 

Maiden  most  perfect,  lady  of  light, 
With  a  noise  of  winds  and  many  rivers, 

With  a  clamour  of  waters,  and  with  might ; 
Bind  on  thy  sandals,   O  thou  most  fleet, 
Over  the  splendour  and  speed  of  thy  feet ; 
For  the  faint  east  quickens,  the  wan  west  shivers, 

Round  the  feet  of  the  day  and  the  feet  of  the  night. 
Where  shall  we  find  her,   how  shall  we  sing  to  her, 

Fold  our  hands  round  her  knees,  and  cling  ? 
O  that  man's  heart  were  as  fire  and  could  spring  to  her, 

Fire,  or  the  strength  of  the  streams  that  spring  ! 
For  the  stars  and  the  winds  are  unto  her 
As  raiment,  as  songs  of  the  harp-player; 
For  the  risen  stars  and  the  fallen  cling  to  her, 

And  the  southwest-wind  and  the  west-wind  sing. 

For  winter's  rains  and  ruins  are  over, 
And  all  the  season  of  snows  and  sins; 

The  days  dividing  lover  and  lover, 

The  light  that  loses,  the  night  that  wins  ; 

And  time  remember'd  is  grief  forgotten, 

And  frosts  are  slain  and  flowers  begotten, 

And  in  green  underwood  and  cover 
Blossom  by  blossom  the  spring  begins. 

The  full  streams  feed  on  flower  of  rushes, 

Ripe  grasses  trammel  a  travelling  foot, 
The  faint  fresh  flame  of  the  young  year  flushes 

From  leaf  to  flower  and  flower  to  fruit; 
And  fruit  and  leaf  are  as  gold  and  fire, 
And  the  oat  is  heard  above  the  lyre, 
And  the  hoofed  heel  of  a  satyr  crushes 

The  chestnut-husk  at  the  chestnut-root. 

973 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

And  Pan  by  noon  and  Bacchus  by  night, 

Fleeter  of  foot  than  the  fleet-foot  kid, 

Follows  with  dancing  and  fills  with  delight 

The  Maenad  and  the  Bassarid ; 
And  soft  as  lips  that  laugh  and  hide 
The  laughing  leaves  of  the  trees  divide, 
And  screen  from  seeing  and  leave  in  sight 
The  god  pursuing,   the  maiden  hid. 

The  ivy  falls  with  the  Bacchanal's  hair 

Over  her  eyebrows  hiding  her  eyes ; 
The  wild  vine  slipping  down  leaves  bare 

Her  bright  breast  shortening  into  sighs; 
The  wild  vine  slips  with  the  weight  of  its  leaves, 
But  the  berried  ivy  catches  and  cleaves 
To  the  limbs  that  glitter,  the  feet  that  scare 
The  wolf  that  follows,  the  fawn  that  flies. 


Sop.  Hertha, 

T    AM  that  which  began ; 

Out  of  me  the  years  roll ; 
Out  of  me  God  and  man ; 
I  am  equal  and  whole; 

God  changes,  and   man,  and  the  form  of  them  bodily ;    I 
am  the  soul. 

Before  ever  land  was, 
Before  ever  the  sea, 
Or  soft  hair  of  the  grass, 

Or  fair  limbs  of  the  tree, 

Or    the    flesh-colour'd    fruit   of  my  branches,    I    was,    and 
thy  soul  was  in  me. 

974 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

First  life  on  my  sources 

First  drifted  and  swam ; 
Out  of  me  are  the  forces 
That  save  it  or  damn ; 

Out    of   me    man    and    woman,    and    wild  beast   and   bird : 
before  God  was,   I  am. 

Beside  or  above  me 

Naught  is  there  to  go ; 
Love  or  unlove  me, 

Unknow  me  or  know, 

I   am    that   which   unloves   me  and  loves ;     I   am   stricken, 
and  I   am  the  blow. 

I  the  mark  that  is  miss'd 

And  the  arrows  that  miss, 
I  the  mouth  that  is  kiss'd 

And  the  breath  in  the  kiss, 

The  search,  and  the  sought,  and  the  seeker,  the   soul  and 
the  body  that  is. 

I  am  that  thing  which  blesses 

My  spirit  elate; 
That  which  caresses 

With  hands  uncreate 

My  limbs  unbegotten  that  measure  the  length  of  the  measure 
of  fate. 

But  what  thing  dost  thou  now, 

Looking  Godward,   to  cry, 
'I  am  I,   thou  art  thou, 

I  am  low,  thou  art  high '  ? 

I  am  thou,  whom  thou  seekest  to  find  him ;    find  thou  bu* 
thyself,  thou  art  I. 

975 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

I  the  grain  and  the  furrow, 

The  plough-cloven  clod 
And  the  ploughshare  drawn  thorough, 

The  germ  and  the  sod, 

The  deed  and  the  doer,  the  seed  and  the  sower,  the  dust 
which  is  God. 

Hast  thou  known  how  I  fashion'd  thee, 

Child,  underground  ? 
Fire  that  impassion'd  thee, 

Iron  that  bound, 

Dim  changes  of  water,   what  thing  of  all  these  hast  thou 
known  of  or  found? 

Canst  thou  say  in  thine  heart 

Thou  hast  seen  with  thine  eyes 
With  what  cunning  of  art 

Thou  wast  wrought  in  what  wise, 

By  what  force  of  what  stuff  thou  wast  shapen,  and  shown 
on  my  breast  to  the  skies? 

Who  hath  given,  who  hath  sold  it  thee, 

Knowledge  of  me  ? 
Has  the  wilderness  told  it  thee? 

Hast  thou  learnt  of  the  sea? 

Hast  thou  communed  in  spirit  with  night  ?    have  the  winds 
taken  counsel  with  thee  ? 

Have  I  set  such  a  star 

To  show  light  on  thy  brow 
That  thou  sawest  from  afar 

What  I  show  to  thee  now  ? 

Have    ye    spoken    as    brethren    together,    the    sun    and    the 
mountains  and  thou? 
976 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

What  is  here,  dost  thou  know  it? 

What  was,   hast  thou  known? 
Prophet  nor  poet 

Nor  tripod  nor  throne 

Nor  spirit  nor  flesh  can  make  answer,  but  only  thy  mother 
alone. 

Mother,  not  maker, 

Born,  and  not  made; 
Though  her  children  forsake  her, 

Allured  or  afraid, 

Praying  prayers  to  the  God  of  their  fashion,  she  stirs  not 
for  all  that  have  pray'd. 

A  creed  is  a  rod, 

And  a  crown  is  of  night ; 
But  this  thing  is   God, 

To  be  man  with  thy  might, 

To  grow  straight  in  the  strength  of  thy  spirit,  and  live  out 
thy  life  as  the  light. 

I  am  in  thee  to  save  thee, 

As  my  soul  in  thee  saith ; 
Give  thou  as  I  gave  thee, 

Thy  life-blood  and  breath, 

Green  leaves  of  thy  labour,   white  flowers   of  thy  thought, 
and  red  fruit  of  thy  death. 

Be  the  ways  of  thy  giving 

As  mine  were  to  thee; 

The  free  life  of  thy  living, 

Be  the  gift  of  it  free ; 

Not  as  servant  to  lord,   nor  as  master  to  slave,   shah  thou 
give  thee  to  me. 

977 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

0  children  of  banishment, 
Souls  overcast, 

Were  the  lights  ye  see  vanish  meant 

Alway  to  last, 

Ye  would  know  not  the  sun  overshining  the  shadows  and 
stars  overpast. 

1  that  saw  where  ye  trod 
The  dim  paths  of  the  night 

Set  the  shadow  call'd  God 

In  your  skies  to  give  light ; 

But  the  morning  of  manhood  is  risen,  and  the  shadowlcss 
soul  is  in  sight. 

The  tree  many-rooted 

That  swells  to  the  sky 
With  frondage  red-fruited, 

The  life-tree  am  I ; 

In   the   buds   of  your   lives   is   the   sap  of  my  leaves:     ye 
shall  live  and  not  die. 

But  the  Gods  of  your  fashion 

That  take  and  that  give, 
In  their  pity  and  passion 

That  scourge  and  forgive, 

They  are  worms  that   are  bred  in  the   bark  that  falls   Dfl  ; 
they  shall  die  and  not  live. 

My  own  blood  is  what  stanches 

The  wounds  in  my  bark; 
Stars  caught  in  my  branches 

Make  day  of  the  dark, 

And  are  worshiped  as  suns  till  the  sunrise  shall  tread  ou« 
their  fires  as  a  spark. 
978 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

Where  dead  ages  hide  under 
The  live  roots  of  the  tree, 
In  my  darkness  the  thunder 

Makes  utterance  of  me; 

In   the   clash   of  my  boughs  with   each   other   ye  hear  the 
waves  sound  of  the  sea. 

That  noise  is  of  Time, 

As  his  feathers  are  spread 
And  his  feet  set  to  climb 

Through  the  boughs  overhead, 

And  my  foliage  rings  round  him  and  rustles,  and  branches 
are  bent  with  his  tread. 

The  storm-winds  of  ages 

Blow  through  me  and  cease, 
The  war-wind  that  rages, 

The  spring-wind  of  peace, 

Ere   the   breath   of   them    roughen    my   tresses,    ere    one   of 
my  blossoms  increase. 

All  sounds  of  all  changes, 
All  shadows  and  lights 
On  the  world's  mountain-ranges 

And  stream-riven  heights, 

Whose  tongue  is  the  wind's  tongue  and  language  of  storm- 
clouds  on  earth-shaking  nights; 

All  forms  of  all  faces, 

All  works  of  all  hands 
In  unsearchable  places 

Of  time-stricken  lands, 

All   death   and  all   life,  and   all  reigns  and   all   ruins,  drop 
through   me  as  sands. 

979 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

Though  sore  be  my  burden 
And  more  than  ye  know, 
And  my  growth  have  no  guerdon 

But  only  to  grow, 

Yet    I    fail    not   of   growing    for    lightnings    above    me    or 
deathworms  below. 

These  too  have  their  part  in  me, 

As  I  too  in  these; 
Such  fire  is  at  heart  in  me, 

Such  sap  is  this  tree's, 

Which  hath  in  it  all  sounds  and  all  secrets  of  infinite  lands 
and  of  seas. 

In  the  spring-colour'd  hours 

When  my  mind  was  as  May's 
There  brake  forth  of  me  flowers 

By  centuries  of  days, 

Strong  blossoms  with  perfume  of  manhood,   shot  out  from 
my  spirit  as  rays. 

And  the  sound  of  them  springing 

And  smell  of  their  shoots 
Were  as  warmth  and  sweet  singing 

And  strength  to  my  roots ; 

And   the  lives  of  my  children  made  perfect  with   freedom 
of  soul  were  my  fruits. 

I  bid  you  but  be ; 

I  have  need  not  of  prayer ; 
I   have  need  of  you  free 

As  your  mouths  of  mine  air ; 
That   my  heart    may  be    greater  within    me,   beholding    the 
fruits  of  me  fair. 
980 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

More  fair  than  strange  fruit  is 

Of  faiths  ye  espouse  ; 
In  me  only  the  root  is 

That  blooms  in  your  boughs ; 

Behold   now   your    God   that  ye    made    you,    to    feed    him 
with  faith  of  your  vows. 

In  the  darkening  and  whitening 

Abysses  adored, 
With  dayspring  and  lightning 

For  lamp  and  for  sword, 

God  thunders  in  heaven,   and   his   angels   are   red  with  the 
wrath  of  the  Lord. 

O  my  sons,   O  too  dutiful 

Toward  Gods  not  of  me, 
Was  not  I  enough  beautiful? 

Was  it  hard  to  be  free? 

For  behold,   I  am  with  you,  am  in  you  and  of  you;    look 
forth  now  and  see. 

Lo,   wing'd  with  world's  wonders, 

With  miracles  shod, 
With  the  fires  of  his  thunders 

For  raiment  and  rod, 

God    trembles    in    heaven,    and    his    angels   are  white  with 
the  terror  of  God. 

For  his  twilight  is  come  on  him, 

His  anguish  is  here; 
And  his  spirits  gaze  dumb  on  him, 

Grown  gray  from  his  fear ; 

And  his  hour  taketh  hold  on  him  stricken,  the  last  of  his 
infinite  year. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

Thought  made  him  and  breaks  him, 

Truth  slays  and  forgives; 
But  to  you,  as  time  takes  him, 

This  new  thing  it  gives, 

Even  love,  the   beloved  Republic,  that  feeds  upon  freedom 
and  lives. 

For  truth  only  is  living, 
Truth  only  is  whole, 
And  the  love  of  his  giving 
Man's  polestar  and  pole ; 

Man,  pulse  of  my  centre,   and  fruit  of  my  body,  and  seed 
of  my  soul. 

One  birth  of  my  bosom ; 

One  beam  of  mine  eye ; 
One  topmost  blossom 

That  scales  the  sky; 

Man,  equal   and   one  with   me,   man    that   is   made   of   me, 
man  that  is  I. 

8 10.  Avc  atque  Vale 

(iN  MEMORY  OF  CHARLES  BAUDELAIRE) 

SHALL   I   strew  on  thee  rose  or  rue  or  laurel, 
Brother,  on  this  that  was  the  veil  of  thee  ? 
Or  quiet  sea-flower  moulded  by  the  sea, 

Or  simplest  growth  of  meadow-sweet  or  sorrel, 
Such  as  the  summer-sleepy  Dryads  weave, 
Waked  up  by  snow-soft  sudden  rains  at  eve? 

Or  wilt  thou  rather,  as  on  earth  before, 

Half-faded  fiery  blossoms,  pale  with  heat 
And  full  of  bitter  summer,  but  more  sweet 

To  thee  than  gleanings  of  a  northern  shore 
Trod  by  no  tropic  feet? 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

For  always  thee  the  fervid  languid  glories 

Allured  of  heavier  suns  in  mightier  skies ; 
Thine  ears  knew  all  the  wandering  watery  sighs 

Where  the  sea  sobs  round  Lesbian  promontories, 
The  barren  kiss  of  piteous  wave  to  wave 
That  knows  not  where  is  that  Leucadian  grave 

Which  hides  too  deep  the  supreme  head  of  song. 
Ah,   salt  and  sterile  as  her  kisses  were, 
The  wild  sea  winds  her  and  the  green  gulfs  bear 

Hither  and  thither,  and  vex  and  work  he--  wrong, 
Blind  gods  that  cannot  spare. 


Thou  sawest,  in  thine  old  singing  season,  brother, 
Secrets  and  sorrows  unbeheld  of  us : 
Fierce  loves,  and  lovely  leaf-buds  poisonous, 

Bare  to  thy  subtler  eye,  but  for  none  other 

Blowing  by  night  in  some  unbreathed-in  clime ; 
The  hidden  harvest  of  luxurious  time, 

Sin  without  shape,   and  pleasure  without  speech; 

And  where  strange  dreams  in  a  tumultuous  sleep 
Make  the  shut  eyes  of  stricken  spirits  weep; 

And  with  each  face  thou  sawest  the  shadow  on  each, 
Seeing  as  men  sow  men  reap. 


O  sleepless  heart  and  sombre  soul  unsleeping, 

That  were  athirst  for  sleep  and  no  more  life 
And  no  more  love,   for  peace  and   no  more  strife ! 

Now  the  dim  gods  of  death  have  in  their  keeping 
Spirit  and  body  and  all  the  springs  of  song, 
Is  it  well  now  where  love  can  do  no  wrong, 

983 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

Where  stingless  pleasure  has  no  foam  or  fang 
Behind  the  unopening  closure  of  her  lips  ? 
Is  it  not  well  where  sod  from  body  slips 

And  flesh  from  bone  divides  without  a  pang 
As  dew  from  flower-bell  drips? 

It  is  enough ;    the  end  and  the  beginning 

Are  one  thing  to  thee,  who  art  past  the  end. 
O  hand  unclasp'd  of  unbeholden  friend, 

For  thee  no  fruits  to  pluck,   no  palms  for  winning, 
No  triumph  and  no  labour  and  no  lust, 
Only  dead  yew-leaves  and  a  little  dust. 

O   quiet  eyes  wherein  the  light  saith  naught, 
Whereto  the  day  is  dumb,   nor  any  night 
With  obscure  finger  silences  your  sight, 

Nor  in  your  speech  the  sudden  soul  speaks  thought, 
Sleep,  and  have  sleep  for  light. 

Now  all  strange  hours  and  all  strange  loves  are  over, 
Dreams  and  desires  and  sombre  songs  and  sweet, 
Hast  thou  found  place  at  the  great  knees  and  feet 

Of  some  pale  Titan-woman  like  a  lover, 
Such  as  thy  vision  here  solicited, 
Under  the  shadow  of  her  fair  vast  head, 

The  deep  division  of  prodigious  breasts, 

The  solemn  slope  of  mighty  limbs  asleep, 
The  weight  of  awful  tresses  that  still  keep 

The  savour  and  shade  of  old-world  pine-forests 
Where  the  wet  hill-winds  weep? 

Hast  thou  found  any  likeness  for  thy  vision? 

O  gardener  of  strange  flowers,  what  bud,  what  bloom, 
Hast   thou  found  sown,  what  gather'd  in  the  gloom  ? 

What  of  despair,  of  rapture,  of  derision, 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

What  of  life  is  there,   what  of  ill  or  good? 

Are  the  fruits  gray  like  dust  or  bright  like  blood? 
Does  the  dim  ground  grow  any  seed  of  ours, 

The  faini  fields  quicken  any  terrene  root, 

In  low  lands  where  the  sun  and  moon  are  mute 
And  all  the  stars  keep  silence?     Are  there  flowers 

At  all,  or  any  fruit  ? 


Alas,  but  though  my  flying  song  flies  after, 

O   sweet  strange  elder  singer,   thy  more  fleet 
Singing,   and  footprints  of  thy  fleeter  feet, 

Some  dim  derision  of  mysterious  laughter 

From  the  blind  tongueless  warders  of  the  dead, 
Some  gainless  glimpse  of  Proserpine's  veil'd  head, 

Some  little  sound  of  unregarded  tears 
Wept  by  effaced  unprofitable  eyes, 
And  from  pale  mouths  some  cadence  of  dead  sighs 

These  only,  these  the  hearkening  spirit  hears, 
Sees  only  such  things  rise. 


Thou  art  far  too  far  for  wings  of  words  to  follow, 
Far  too  far  off  for  thought  or  any  prayer. 
What  ails  us  with  thee,   who  art  wind  and  air  ? 

What  ails  us  gazing  where  all  seen  is  hollow  ? 
Yet  with  some  fancy,   yet  with  some  desire, 
Dreams  pursue  death  as  winds  a  flying  fire, 

Our  dreams  pursue  our  dead  and  do  not  find. 

Still,  and  more  swift  than  they,  the  thin  flame  flies, 
The  low  light  fails  us  in  elusive  skies, 

Still  the  foil'd  earnest  ear  is  deaf,  and  blind 
Are  still  the  eluded  eyes. 

985 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

Not  thee,   O  never  thee,   in  all  time's  changes, 

Not  thee,  but  this  the  sound  of  thy  sad  soul, 
The  shadow  of  thy  swift  spirit,  this  shut  scroll 

I   lay  my  hand  on,  and  not  death  estranges 
My  spirit  from  communion  of  thy  song — 
These  memories  and  these  melodies  that  throng 

Veil'd  porches  of  a  Muse  funereal — 

These  I  salute,  these  touch,  these  clasp  and  fold 
As  though  a  hand  were  in  my  hand  to  hold, 

Or  through  mine  ears  a  mourning  musical 
Of  many  mourners  roll'd. 

I  among  these,   I  also,  in  such  station 

As  when  the  pyre  was  charr'd,  and  piled  the  sods. 

And  offering  to  the  dead  made,   and  their  gods, 
The  old  mourners  had,   standing  to  make  libation, 

I  stand,  and  to  the  Gods  and  to  the  dead 

Do  reverence  without  prayer  or  praise,  and  shed 
Offering  to  these  unknown,  the  gods  of  gloom, 

And  what  of  honey  and  spice  my  seed-lands  bear, 

And  what  I   may  of  fruits  in  this  chill'd  air, 
And  lay,   Orestes-like,  across  the  tomb 

A  curl  of  sever'd   hair. 

But  by  no  hand  nor  any  treason  stricken, 

Not  like  the  low-lying  head  of  Him,  the  King, 
The  flame  that  made  of  Troy  a  ruinous  thing, 

Thou  liest  and  on  this  dust  no  tears  could  quicken. 
There  fall  no  tears  like  theirs  that  all  men  hear 
Fall  tear  by  sweet  imperishable  tear 

Down  the  opening  leaves  of  holy  poets'  pages. 
Thee  not  Orestes,  not  Electra  mourns ; 
But  bending  us-ward  with  memorial  urns 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

The  most  high  Muses  that  fulfil  all  ages 
Weep,  and  our  God's  heart   yearns. 

For,   sparing  of  his  sacred  strength,   not  often 
Among  us  darkling  here  the  lord  of  light 
Makes  manifest  his  music  and  his  might 

In  hearts  that  open  and  in  lips  that  soften 

With  the  soft  flame  and  heat  of  songs  that  shine. 
Thy  lips  indeed  he  touch'd  with  bitter  wine, 

And  nourish'd  them  indeed  with  bitter  bread ; 

Yet  surely  from  his  hand  thy  soul's  food  came, 
The  fire  that  scarr'd  thy  spirit  at  his  flame 

Was  lighted,   and  thine  hungering  heart  he  fed 
Who  feeds  our  hearts  with   fame. 

Therefore  he  too  now  at  thy  soul's  sunsetting, 

God  of  all  suns  and  songs,   he  too  bends  down 
To  mix  his  laurel  with  thy  cypress  crown, 

And  save  thy  dust  from  blame  and  from  forgetting. 
Therefore  he  too,  seeing  all  thou  wert  and  art, 
Compassionate,  with  sad  and  sacred  heart, 

Mourns  thee  of  many  his  children  the  last  dead, 

And  hallows  with  strange  tears  and  alien  sighs 
Thine  unmelodious  mouth  and  sunless  eyes, 

And  over  thine  irrevocable  head 

Sheds  light  from  the  under  skies. 

And  one  weeps  with  him  in  the  ways  Lethean, 

And  stains  with  tears  her  changing  bosom  chill ; 
That  obscure  Venus  of  the  hollow  hill, 

That  thing  transform'd  which  was  the  Cytherean, 
With  lips  that  lost  their  Grecian  laugh  divine 
Long  since,  and  face  no  more  call'd  Erycine — 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

A  ghost,  a  bitter  and  luxurious  god. 

Thee  also  with  fair  flesh  and  singing  spell 
Did  she,  a  sad  and  second  prey,  compel 

Into  the  footless  places  once  more  trod, 
And  shadows  hot  from  hell. 

And  now  no  sacred  staff  shall  break  in  blossom, 
No  choral  salutation  lure  to  light 
A  spirit  sick  with  perfume  and  sweet  night 

And  love's  tired  eyes  and  hands  and  barren  bosom. 

There  is  no  help  for  these  things;    none  to  mend, 
And  none  to  mar;    not  all  our  songs,   O  friend, 

Will  make  death  clear  or  make  life  durable. 
Howbeit  with  rose  and  ivy  and  wild  vine 
And  with  wild  notes  about  this  dust  of  thine 

At  least  I  fill  the  place  where  white  dreams  dwell 
And  wreathe  an  unseen  shrine. 

Sleep ;  and  if  life  was  bitter  to  thee,  pardon, 

If  sweet,  give  thanks;    thou  hast  no  more  to  live; 
And  to  give  thanks  is  good,  and  to  forgive. 

Out  of  the  mystic  and  the  mournful  garden 

Where  all  day  through  thine  hands  in  barren  braid 
Wove  the  sick  flowers  of  secrecy  and  shade, 

Green  buds  of  sorrow  and  sin,  and  remnants  gray, 

Sweet-smelling,  pale  with  poison,  sanguine-hearted, 
Passions  that  sprang  from  sleep  and  thoughts  that  started, 

Shall  death  not  bring  us  all  as  thee  one  day 
Among  the  days  departed? 

For  thee,  O  now  a  silent  soul,  my  brother, 

Take  at  my  hands  this  garland,  and  farewell. 
Thin  is  the  leaf,  and  chill  the  wintry  smell, 

And  chill  the  solemn  earth,  a  fatal  mother, 
988 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

With  sadder  than  the  Niobean  womb, 
And  in  the  hollow  of  her  breasts  a  tomb. 

Content  thee,  howsoe'er,  whose  days  are  done; 
There  lies  not  any  troublous  thing  before. 
Nor  sight  nor  sound  to  war  against  thee  more, 

For  whom  all  winds  are  quiet  as  the  sun, 
All  waters  as  the  shore. 


8 1 1.  Itylus 

SWALLOW,  my  sister,   O  sister  swallow, 
How  can  thine  heart  be  full  of  the  spring? 
A  thousand  summers  are  over  and  dead. 
What  hast  thou  found  in  the  spring  to  follow  ? 
What  hast  thou  found  in  thine  heart  to  sing? 
What  wilt  thou  do  when  the  summer  is  shed? 

O  swallow,  sister,  O  fair  swift  swallow, 

Why  wilt  thou  fly  after  spring  to  the  south, 
The  soft  south  whither  thine  heart  is  set  ? 
Shall  not  the  grief  of  the  old  time  follow  ? 

Shall  not  the  song  thereof  cleave  to  thy  mouth  ? 
Hast  thou  forgotten  ere  I   forget? 

Sister,   my  sister,  O  fleet  sweet  swallow, 

Thy  way  is  long  to  the  sun  and  the  south; 

But  I,  fulfill'd  of  my  heart's  desire, 
Shedding  my  song  upon  height,  upon  hollow, 
From  tawny  body  and  sweet  small  mouth 
Feed  the  heart  of  the  night  with  fire. 


I   the  nightingale  all  spring  through, 

O  swallow,  sister,  O  changing  swallow, 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

All  spring  through  till  the  spring  be  done, 
Clothed  with  the  light  of  the  night  on  the  dew, 
Sing,  while  the  hours  and  the  wild  birds  follow, 
Take  flight  and  follow  and  find  the  sun. 

Sister,   my  sister,   O  soft  light  swallow, 

Though  all  things  feast  in  the  spring's  guest-chamber. 

How  hast  thou  heart  to  be  glad  thereof  yet? 
For  where  thou  fliest  I  shall  not  follow, 
Till  life  forget  and  death  remember, 
Till  thou  remember  and  I  forget. 

Swallow,   my  sister,   O   singing  swallow, 
I  know  not  how  thou  hast  heart  to  sing. 

Hast  thou  the  heart  ?    is  it  all  past  over  ? 
Thy  lord  the  summer  is  good  to  follow, 
And  fair  the  feet  of  thy  lover  the  spring : 

But  what  wilt  thou  say  to  the  spring  thy  lover  i 

O  swallow,   sister,   O  fleeting  swallow, 
My  heart  in  me  is  a  molten  ember 

And  over  my  head  the  waves  have  met. 
But  thou  wouldst  tarry  or  I   would  follow 
Could  I  forget  or  thou  remember, 
Couldst  thou  remember  and  I  forget. 

O  sweet  stray  sister,   O  shifting  swallow, 
The  heart's  division  divideth  us. 

Thy  heart  is  light  as  a  leaf  of  a  tree; 
But  mine  goes  forth  among  sea-gulfs  hollow 
To  the  place  of  the  slaying  of  Itylus, 
The  feast  of  Daulis,  the  Thracian  sea. 

O  swallow,   sister,   O  rapid  swallow, 
I  pray  thee  sing  not  a  little  space. 
99° 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

Are  not  the  roofs  and  the  lintels  wet? 
The  woven  web  that  was  plain  to  follow, 
The  small  slain  body,   the  flower-like  face, 
Can   I  remember  if  thou  forget? 

O  sister,  sister,  thy  first-begotten ! 

The  hands  that  cling  and  the  feet  that  follow, 

The  voice  of  the  child's  blood  crying  yet, 
Who  hath   remember }d  me  ?     ivho  hath  forgotten  ? 
Thou  hast  forgotten,   O  summer  swallow, 
But  the  world  shall  end  when   I  forget. 


WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS 
Si 2.  Earliest  Spring 

b.  1837 

'"TOSSING    his    mane    of  snows    in  wildest    eddies    and 
*-       tangles, 

Lion-like  March  cometh  in,  hoarse,  with  tempestuous  breath, 

Through    all    the    moaning    chimneys,  and  'thwart    all    the 

hollows  and  angles  [death. 

Round   the    shuddering    house,    threating    of  winter   and 

But  in  my  heart  I  feel  the  life  of  the  wood  and  the 
meadow 

Thrilling  the  pulses  that  own  kindred  with  fibres  that  lift 
Bud  and  blade  to  the  sunward,  within  the  inscrutable  shadow, 

Deep  in  the  oak's  chill  core,  under  the  gathering  drift. 

Nay,  to  earth's  life  in  mine  some  prescience,  or  dream,  or 
desire  [goes — 

(How  shall  I  name  it  aright  ?)  comes  for  a  moment  and 
Rapture  of  life  ineffable,  perfect— as  if  in  the  brier, 

Leafless  there  by  my  door,  trembled  a  sense  of  the  rose. 

991 


BRET  HARTE 

813.  What  the  Bullet  sang 

1839-1902 

f~\   JOY  of  creation, 
V-*1         To  be! 

0  rapture,  to  fly 

And  be  free! 
Be  the  battle  lost  or  won, 
Though  its  smoke  shall  hide  the  sun, 

1  shall  find  my  love — the  one 

Born  for  me ! 

I  shall  know  him  where  he  stands 

All  alone, 
With  the  power  in  his  hands 

Not  o'erthrown ; 
I  shall  know  him  by  his  face, 
By  his  godlike  front  and  grace; 
I  shall  hold  him  for  a  space 

All  my  own! 

It  is  he — O  my  love ! 

So  bold ! 
It  is  I — all  thy  love 

Foretold  ! 

It  is  I — O  love,  what  bliss! 
Dost  thou  answer  to  my  kiss  ? 
O  sweetheart!    what  is  this 

Lieth  there  so  colds' 


JOHN  TODHUNTER 

814.  Maureen 

b.  1839 

f~\     YOU  plant  the  pain  in  my  heart  with   your  wistful 
^7      eyes, 

Girl  of  my  choice,   Maureen  ! 

Will    you    drive    me    mad   for  the   kisses    your  shy,   sweet 
mouth  denies, 

Maureen  ? 

Like  a  walking  ghost  I  am,   and  no  words  to  woo, 
White  rose  of  the  West,   Maureen : 

For  it 's  pale  you  are,  and  the  fear  that 's  on  you  is   over 
me  too, 

Maureen ! 

Sure  it 's  one  complaint  that 's  on  us,   asthore,  this  day, 

Bride  of  my  dreams,  Maureen : 
The  smart  of  the   bee  that  stung  us  his  honey  must  cure, 
they  say, 

Maureen  1 

I'll  coax  the  light  to  your  eyes,  and  the  rose  to  your  face, 
Mavourneen,  my  own  Maureen ! 

When  I  feel  the  warmth  of  your  breast,  and  your  nest   is 
my  arm's  embrace, 
Maureen  ! 

O   where  was  the   King  o'  the  World  that  day — only  me? 

My  one  true  love,   Maureen  ! 

And  you  the  Queen  with  me  there,  and  your  throne  in  my 
heart,   machree, 
Maureen ! 

Kk  993 


JOHN  TODHUNTER 


8  if. 

""THERE'S  a  glade  in  Aghadoe,  Aghadoe,    Aghadoe, 
•*       There  's  a  green  and  silent  glade  in  Aghadoe, 
Where  we  met,  my  love  and  I,  Love's  fair  planet  in  the  sky, 
O'er  that  sweet  and  silent  glade  in  Aghadoe. 

There 's  a  glen  in  Aghadoe,  Aghadoe,  Aghadoe, 
There 's  a  deep  and  secret  glen  in  Aghadoe, 

Where  I  hid  from  the  eyes  of  the  red-coats  and  their  spies, 
That  year  the  trouble  came  to  Aghadoe. 

O,   my  curse  on  one  black  heart  in  Aghadoe,   Aghadoe, 
On  Shaun  Dhu,  my  mother's  son  in  Aghadoe  ! 

When  your  throat  fries  in  hell's  drouth,   salt  the   flame   be 

in  your  mouth, 
For  the  treachery  you  did  in  Aghadoe  ! 

For  they  track'd  me  to  that  glen  in  Aghadoe,  Aghadoe, 
When  the  price  was  on  his  head  in  Aghadoe: 

O'er  the  mountain,  through  the  wood,  as  I  stole  to  him  with 

food, 
Where  in  hiding  lone  he  lay  in  Aghadoe. 

But  they  never  took  him  living  in  Aghadoe,   Aghadoe ; 

With  the  bullets  in  his  heart  in  Aghadoe, 
There  he  lay,  the  head,  my  breast  keeps  the  warmth  of  wher 
'twould  rest, 

Gone,  to  win  the  traitor's  gold,   from  Aghadoe  ! 

I  walk'd  to  Mallow  town  from  Aghadoe,   Aghadoe, 
Brought  his  head  from  the  gaol's  gate  to  Aghadoe; 

Then  I  cover'd  him  with  fern,  and  I  piled  on  him  the  cairn 
Like  an  Irish   King  he  sleeps  in  Aghadoe. 
994 


JOHN  TODHUNTER 

O,  to  creep  into  that  cairn  in  Aghadoe,   Aghadoe ! 

There  to  rest  upon  his  breast  in  Aghadoe  ! 
Sure  your  dog  for  you  could  die  with  no  truer  heart  than  I, 

Your  own  love,  cold  on  your  cairn  in  Aghadoe. 


WILFRID   SCAWEN   BLUNT 

816.  Song 

b. 1840 

C~\   FLY  not,   Pleasure,   pleasant-hearted  Pleasure; 
^-^      Fold  me  thy  wings,   I  prithee,   yet  and  stay: 

For  my  heart  no  measure 

Knows,  nor  other  treasure 
To  buy  a  garland  for  my  love  to-day. 

And  thou,  too,   Sorrow,  tender-hearted  Sorrow, 
Thou  gray-eyed  mourner,  fly  not  yet  away  : 
For  I  fain  would  borrow 
Thy  sad  weeds  to-morrow, 
To  make  a  mourning  for  love's  yesterday. 

The  voice  of  Pity,   Time's  divine  dear  Pity, 

Moved  me  to  tears :    I  dared  not  say  them  nay, 

But  passed  forth  from  the  city, 

Making  thus  my  ditty 
Of  fair  love  lost  for  ever  and  a  day. 

817.  The  'Desolate  City 

DARK  to  me  is  the  earth.     Dark  to  me  are  the  heavens. 
Where  is   she   that   I   loved,   the   woman   with   eyes 
like  stars? 
Desolate  are  the  streets.     Desolate  is  the  city. 

A  city  taken  by  storm,  where  none  are  left  but  the  slain. 

995 


WILFRID  SCAWEN  BLUNT 

Sadly  I  rose  at  dawn,  undid  the  latch  of  my  shutters, 
Thinking  to  let  in  light,  but  I  only  let  in  love. 

Birds  in  the  boughs  were  awake ;  I  listen'd  to  their  chaunting  ; 
Each  one  sang  to  his  love;  only  I  was  alone. 

This,  I  said  in  my  heart,  is  the  hour  of  life  and  of  pleasure. 

Now  each  creature  on  earth  has  his  joy,  and  lives  in  the  sun, 
Each  in  another's  eyes  finds  light,  the  light  of  compassion, 

This  is  the  moment  of  pity,  this  is  the  moment  of  love. 

Speak,  O  desolate  city!    Speak,  O  silence  in  sadness! 
Where  is  she  that   I   loved   in   my  strength,  that   spoke 

to  my  soul  ? 
Where  are  those  passionate  eyes  that  appeal'd  to  my  eyes 

in  passion  ? 

Where   is  the   mouth   that   kiss'd   me,  the  breast    I   laid 
to  my  own  ? 

Speak,  thou  soul  of  my  soul,  for  rage  in  my  heart  is  kindled. 

Tell  me,  where  didst  thou  flee  in  the  day  of  destruction 

and  fear? 
See,  my  arms  still  enfold  thee,  enfolding  thus  all  heaven, 

See,  my  desire  is  fulfill'd  in  thee,  for  it  fills  the  earth. 

Thus  in  my  grief  I  lamented.  Then  turn'd  I  from  the  window, 
Turn'd  to  the  stair,  and  the  open  door,  and  the  empty  street, 

Crying  aloud  in  my  grief,  for  there  was  none  to  chide  me, 
None  to  mock  my  weakness,  none  to  behold  my  tears. 

Groping  I  went,  as  blind.     I  sought  her  house,  my  beloved's. 

There  I  stopp'd  at  the  silent  door,  and  listen'd  and  tried 

the  latch. 
Love,  I  cried,  dost  thou  slumber?  This  is  no  hour  for  slumber, 

This  is  the  hour  of  love,  and  love  I  bring  in  my  hand. 


WILFRID  SCAWEN  BLUNT 

I  knew  the  house,  with  its  windows  barr'd,  and  its  leafless 

fig-tree, 

Climbing  round  by  the  doorstep,  the  only  one  in  the  street ; 
I  knew  where  my  hope  had  climb'd  to  its  goal  and  there 

encircled 
All  that  those  desolate  walls  once  held,  my  beloved's  heart. 

There  in  my  grief  she  consoled  me.  She  loved  me  when 
I  loved  not. 

She  put  her  hand  in  my  hand,  and  set  her  lips  to  my  lips. 
She  told  me  all  her  pain  and  show'd  me  all  her  trouble. 

I,  like  a  fool,   scarce  heard,  hardly  return'd  her  kiss. 

Love,    thy   eyes   were   like  torches.       They   changed    as    I 

beheld  them. 
Love,  thy  lips  were  like  gems,  the  seal   thou   settest  on 

my  life. 

Love,  if  I  loved  not  then,  behold  this  hour  thy  vengeance; 
This  is  the  fruit  of  thy  love  and  thee,  the  unwise  grown  wise. 

Weeping  strangled  my  voice.     I  call'd  out,  but  none  answer'd  ; 

Blindly  the  windows  gazed  back  at  me,  dumbly  the  door; 
She  whom  I  love,  who  loved  me,  look'd  not  on  my  yearning, 

Gave  me  no  more  her  hands  to  kiss,  show'd  me  no  more 
her  soul. 

Therefore  the  earth  is  dark   to  me,  the  sunlight  blackness, 
Therefore  I  go  in  tears  and  alone,   by  night  and  day ; 

Therefore  I  find  no  love  in  heaven,   no  light,   no  beauty, 
A  heaven  taken  by  storm,  where  none  are  left  but  the  slain  ! 


997 


WILFRID  SCAWEN  BLUNT 


818.  With  Esther 

t_J  E  who  has  once  been  happy  is  for  aye 

•*•  •*•      Out  of  destruction's  reach.       His  fortune  then 

Holds  nothing  secret ;    and  Eternity, 

Which  is  a  mystery  to  other  men, 
Has  like  a  woman  given  him  its  joy. 

Time  is  his  conquest.       Life,  if  it  should  fret, 
Has  paid  him  tribute.      He  can  bear  to  die, 

He  who  has  once  been  happy !     When  I  set 
The  world  before  me  and  survey  its  range, 

Its  mean  ambitions,  its  scant  fantasies, 
The  shreds  of  pleasure  which  for  lack  of  change 

Men  wrap  around  them  and  call  happiness, 
The  poor  delights  which  are  the  tale  and  sum 
Of  the  world's  courage  in  its  martyrdom  ; 

When  I  hear  laughter  from  a  tavern  door, 

When  I  see  crowds  agape  and  in  the  rain 
Watching  on  tiptoe  and  with  stifled  roar 

To  see  a  rocket  fired  or  a  bull  slain, 
When  misers  handle  gold,  when  orators 

Touch  strong  men's  hearts  with  glory  till   they  weep, 
When  cities  deck  their  streets  for  barren  wars 

Which  have  laid  waste  their  youth,  and  when  I  keep 
Calmly  the  count  of  my  own  life  and  see 

On  what  poor  stuff  my  manhood's  dreams  were  fed 
Till  I  too  learn'd  what  dole  of  vanity 

Will  serve  a  human  soul  for  daily  bread, 
— Then  I  remember  that  I  once  was  young 
And  lived  with  Esther  the  world's  gods  among. 


WILFRID  SCAWEN  BLUNT 
8ip.   To  Manon,  on  his  Fortune  in  loving  Her 

T    DID  not  choose  thee,  dearest.      It  was  Love 

•*•      That  made  the  choice,  not  I.     Mine  eyes  were  blind 

As  a  rude  shepherd's  who  to  some  lone  grove 

His  offering  brings  and  cares  not  at  what  shrine 

He  bends  his  knee.     The  gifts   alone  were  mine; 

The  rest  was  Love's.      He  took  me  by  the  hand, 

And  fired  the  sacrifice,  and  poured  the  wine, 

And  spoke  the  words  I  might  not  understand. 

I  was  unwise  in  all  but  the  dear  chance 
Which  was  my  fortune,   and  the  blind  desire 
Which  led  my  foolish  steps  to  Love's  abode, 
And  youth's  sublime  unreason'd  prescience 
Which  raised  an  altar  and  inscribed  in  fire 
Its  dedication   To  the   Unknown   God. 

820.  St.  Valentine's  T)ay 


,   all  day,   I  rode  upon  the  down, 
•*•       With  hounds  and  horsemen,  a  brave  company 
On  this  side  in  its  glory  lay  the  sea, 
On  that  the  Sussex  weald,   a  sea  of  brown. 
The  wind  was  light,   and  brightly  the  sun  shone, 
And  still  we  gallop'd  on  from  gorse  to  gorse: 
And  once,   when  check'd,   a  thrush  sang,  and  my  horse 
Prick'd  his  quick  ears  as  to  a  sound  unknown. 

I  knew  the  Spring  was  come.     I  knew  it  even 
Better  than  all  by  this,   that  through  my  chase 
In  bush  and  stone  and  hill  and  sea  and  heaven 
I  seem'd  to  see  and  follow  still  your  face. 
Your  face  my  quarry  was.     For  it  I  rode, 
My  horse  a  thing  of  wings,  myself  a  god. 

999 


WILFRID  SCAWEN  BLUNT 


821.  Gibraltar 

CEVEN  weeks  of  sea,  and  twice  seven  days  of  storm 

^     Upon  the  huge  Atlantic,  and  once  more 

We  ride  into  still  water  and  the  calm 

Of  a  sweet  evening,   screen'd  by  either  shore 

Of  Spain  and  Barbary.     Our  toils  are  o'er, 

Our  exile  is  acco.nplish'd.     Once  again 

We  look  on  Europe,  mistress  as  of  yore 

Of  the  fair  earth  and  of  the  hearts  of  men. 

Ay,  this  is  the  famed  rock  which  Hercules 
And  Goth  and  Moor  bequeath'd  us.      At  this  door 
England  stands  sentry.     God  !    to  hear  the  shrill 
Sweet  treble  of  her  fifes  upon  the  breeze, 
And  at  the  summons  of  the  rock  gun's  roar 
To  see  her  red  coats  marching  from  the  hill ! 


822.  Written  at  Florence 

f~\   WORLD,  in  very  truth  thou  art  too  young; 

^-^      When  wilt  thou  learn  to  wear  the  garb  of  age  ? 

World,   with  thy  covering  of  yellow  flowers, 

Hast  thou  forgot  what  generations  sprung 

Out  of  thy  loins  and  loved  thee  and  are  gone? 

Hast  thou  no  place  in  all  their  heritage 

Where  thou  dost  only  weep,  that  I  may  come 

Nor  fear  the  mockery  of  thy  yellow  flowers  ? 

O  world,   in  very  truth  thou  art  too  young. 
The  heroic  wealth  of  passionate  emprize 
Built  thee  fair  cities  for  thy  naked  plains : 
How  hast  thou  set  thy  summer  growth  among 


WILFRID  SCAWEN  BLUNT 

The  broken  stones  which  were  their  palaces ! 
Hast  thou  forgot  the  darkness  where  he  lies 
Who  made  thee  beautiful,  or  have  thy  bees 
Found  out  his  grave  to  build  their  honeycombs  ? 

O  world,   in  very  truth  thou  art  too  young : 

They  gave  thee  love  who  measured  out  thy  skies, 

And,   when  they  found  for  thee  another  star, 

Who  made  a  festival  and  straightway  hung 

The  jewel  on  thy  neck.      O  merry  world, 

Hast  thou  forgot  the  glory  of  those  eyes 

Which  first  look'd  love  in  thine?    Thou  hast  not  furl'd 

One  banner  of  thy  bridal  car  for  them. 

O  world,   in  very  truth  thou  art  too  young. 
There  was  a  voice  which  sang  about  thy  spring, 
Till  winter  froze  the  sweetness  of  his  lips, 
And  lo,  the  worms  had  hardly  left  his  tongue 
Before  thy  nightingales  were  come  again. 
O  world,  what  courage  hast  thou  thus  to  sing? 
Say,  has  thy  merriment  no  secret  pain, 
No  sudden  weariness  that  thou  art  young  ? 


82$.          The  Two  Highwaymen 

I    LONG  have  had  a  quarrel  set  with  Time 
Because  he  robb'd  me.     Every  day  of  life 
Was  wrested  from  me  after  bitter  strife: 
I  never  yet  could  see  the  sun  go  down 
But  I  was  angry  in  my  heart,  nor  hear 
The  leaves  fall  in  the  wind  without  a  tear 
Over  the  dying  summer.     I  have  known 
No  truce  with  Time  nor  Time's  accomplice,  Death. 

K  k  3  looi 


WILFRID  SCAWEN  BLUNT 

The  fair  world  is  the  witness  of  a  crime 
Repeated  every  hour.      For  life  and  breath 
Are  sweet  to  all  who  live;    and  bitterly 
The  voices  of  these  robbers  of  the  heath 
Sound  in  each  ear  and  chill  the  passer-by. 
— What  have  we  done  to  thee,  thou  monstrous  Time  ? 
What  have  we  done  to  Death  that  we  must  die  ? 


AUSTIN  DOBSON 
A  Garden  Song 

b.  1840 

T_J  ERE  in  this  sequester'd  close 
*•  *•      Bloom  the  hyacinth  and  rose. 
Here  beside  the  modest  stock 
Flaunts  the  flaring  hollyhock ; 
Here,  without  a  pang,  one  sees 
Ranks,   conditions,  and  degrees. 

All  the  seasons  run  their  race 
In  this  quiet  resting-place; 
Peach  and  apricot  and  fig 
Here  will  ripen  and  grow  big ; 
Here  is  store  and  overplus, — 
More  had  not  Alcinoiis ! 

Here,   in  alleys  cool  and  green, 
Far  ahead  the  thrush  is  seen ; 
Here  along  the  southern  wall 
Keeps  the  bee  his  festival; 
All  is  quiet  else — afar 
Sounds  of  toil  and  turmoil  are. 


AUSTIN  DOBSON 

Here  be  shadows  large  and  long; 
Here  be  spaces  meet  for  song ; 
Grant,   O  garden-god,   that  I, 
Now  that  none  profane  is  nigh, — 
Now  that  mood  and  moment  please, — 
Find  the  fair  Pierides ! 


82?.  Urceus  Exit 

Triolet 

T   INTENDED  an  Ode, 

*•      And  it  turn'd  to  a  Sonnet. 

It  began  a  la  mode, 

I  intended  an  Ode  ; 

But  Rose  cross'd  the  road 

In  her  latest  new  bonnet ; 
I  intended  an  Ode; 

And  it  turn'd  to  a  Sonnet. 


826.  In  After  jDa 

Rondeau 

IN  after  days  when  grasses  high 
O'er-top  the  stone  where  I  shall  lie, 
Though  ill  or  well  the  world  adjust 
My  slender  claim  to  honour'd  dust, 
I  shall  not  question  nor  reply. 

I  shall  not  see  the  morning  sky; 
I   shall  not  hear  the  night-wind  sigh; 
I  shall  be  mute,  as  all  men  must 
In  after  days! 


AUSTIN  DOBSON 

But  yet,  now  living,  fain  would  I 
That  some  one  then  should  testify, 
Saying — 'He  held  his  pen  in  trust 
To  Art,  not  serving  shame  or  lust.' 
Will  none  ? — Then  let  my  memory  die 
In  after  days  ! 


HENRY  CLARENCE  KENDALL 
827.          Mooni 

1841- i 88a 

I_J  E  that  is  by  Mooni  now 

*  •*•      Sees  the  water-sapphires  gleaming 
Where  the  River  Spirit,  dreaming, 
Sleeps  by  fall  and  fountain  streaming 

Under  lute  of  leaf  and  bough!  — 
Hears  what  stamp  of  Storm  with  stress  is, 
Psalms  from  unseen  wildernesses 
Deep  amongst  far  hill-recesses — 

He  that  is  by  Mooni  now. 

Yea,  for  him  by  Mooni's  marge 
Sings  the  yellow-hair'd  September, 
With  the  face  the  gods  remember, 
When  the  ridge  is  burnt  to  ember, 

And  the  dumb  sea  chains  the  barge ! 
Where  the  mount  like  molten  brass  is, 
Down  beneath  fern- feather 'd  passes 
Noonday  dew  in  cool  green  grasses 

Gleams  on  him  by  Mooni's  marge. 
1004 


HENRY  CLARENCE  KENDALL 

Who  that  dwells  by  Mooni   yet, 
Feels  in  flowerful  forest  arches 
Smiting  wings  and  breath  that  parches 
Where  strong  Summer's  path  of  march  is, 

And  the  suns  in  thunder  set ! 
Housed  beneath  the  gracious  kirtle 
Of  the  shadowy  water-myrtle — 
Winds  may  kiss  with  heat  and  hurtle, 

He  is  safe  by  Mooni  yet! 

Days  there  were  when  he  who  sings 
(Dumb  so  long  through  passion's  losses) 
Stood  where  Mooni's  water  crosses 
Shining  tracks  of  green-hair'd  mosses, 

Like  a  soul  with  radiant  wings : 
Then  the  psalm  the  wind  rehearses — 
Then  the  song  the  stream  disperses — • 
Lent  a  beauty  to  his  verses, 

Who  to-night  of  Mooni  sings. 

Ah,  the  theme — the  sad,  gray  theme! 
Certain  days  are  not  above  me, 
Certain  hearts  have  ceased  to  love  me, 
Certain  fancies  fail  to  move  me, 

Like  the  effluent  morning  dream. 
Head  whereon  the  white  is  stealing, 
Heart  whose  hurts  are  past  all  healing, 
Where  is  now  the  first,  pure  feeling? 

Ah,  the  theme — the  sad,  gray  theme ! 


Still  to  be  by  Mooni  cool — 
Where  the  water-blossoms  glister, 


HENRY  CLARENCE  KENDALL 

And  by  gleaming  vale  and  vista 
Sits  the  English  April's  sister, 

Soft  and  sweet  and  wonderful ! 
Just  to  rest  beneath  the  burning 
Outer  world — its  sneers  and  spurning — 
Ah,  my  heart — my  heart  is  yearning 

Still  to  be  by  Mooni  cool ! 


ARTHUR    WILLIAM    EDGAR 
O'SHAUGHNESSY 


828. 

i844-'88i 

rE  are  the  music-makers, 

And  we  are  the  dreamers  of  dreams, 
Wandering  by  lone  sea-breakers, 

And  sitting  by  desolate  streams ; 
World-losers  and  world-forsakers, 

On  whom  the  pale  moon  gleams: 
Yet  we  are  the  movers  and  shakers 
Of  the  world  for  ever,  it  seems. 

With  wonderful  deathless  ditties 
We  build  up  the  world's  great  cities, 

And  out  of  a  fabulous  story 

We  fashion  an  empire's  glory : 
One  man  with  a  dream,   at  pleasure, 

Shall  go  forth  and  conquer  a  crown; 
And  three  with  a  new  song's  measure 

Can  trample  an  empire  down. 


ARTHUR  O'SHAUGHNESSY 

We,  in  the  ages  lying 

In  the  buried  past  of  the  earth, 
Built  Nineveh  with  our  sighing, 

And  Babel  itself  with  our  mirth  ; 
And  o'erthrew  them  with  prophesying 

To  the  old  of  the  new  world's  worth ; 
For  each  age  is  a  dream  that  is  dying, 

Or  one  that  is  coming  to  birth. 


82  p.  Song 

T    MADE  another  garden,  yea, 

For  my  new  Love  : 
I  left  the  dead  rose  where  it  lay 

And  set  the  new  above. 
Why  did  my  Summer  not  begin  ? 

Why  did  my  heart  not  haste? 
My  old  Love  came  and  walk'd  therein, 

And  laid  the  garden  waste. 

She  enter'd  with  her  weary  smile, 

Just  as  of  old; 
She  look'd  around  a  little  while 

And  shiver'd  with  the  cold  : 
Her  passing  touch  was  death  to  all, 

Her  passing  look  a  blight ; 
She  made  the  white  rose-petals  fall, 

And  turn'd  the  red  rose  white. 

Her  pale  robe  clinging  to  the  grass 

Seem'd  like  a  snake 
That  bit  the  grass  and  ground,  alas! 
And  a  sad  trail  did  make. 


ARTHUR  O'SHAUGHNESSY 

She  went  up  slowly  to  the  gate, 
And  then,  just  as  of  yore, 

She  turn'd  back  at  the  last  to  wait 
And  say  farewell  once  more. 


8$o.          The  Fountain  of  Tears 

TF  you  go  over  desert  and  mountain, 
•*•      Far  into  the  country  of  Sorrow, 

To-day  and  to-night  and  to-morrow, 
And  maybe  for  months  and  for  years; 

You  shall  come  with  a  heart  that  is  bursting 
For  trouble  and  toiling  and  thirsting, 
You  shall  certainly  come  to  the  fountain 
At  length, — to  the  Fountain  of  Tears. 

Very  peaceful  the  place  is,  and  solely 
For  piteous  lamenting  and  sighing, 
And  those  who  come  living  or  dying 

Alike  from  their  hopes  and  their  fears ; 
Full  of  cypress-like  shadows  the  place  is, 
And  statues  that  cover  their  faces  : 

But  out  of  the  gloom  springs  the  holy 

And  beautiful  Fountain  of  Tears. 

And  it  flows  and  it  flows  with  a  motion 

So  gentle  and  lovely  and  listless, 

And  murmurs  a  tune  so  resistless 
To  him  who  hath  sufFer'd  and  hears — 

You  shall  surely — without  a  word  spoken, 

Kneel  down  there  and  know  your  heart  broken, 
And  yield  to  the  long-curb'd  emotion 
That  day  by  the  Fountain  of  Tears. 
1008 


ARTHUR  O'SHAUGHNESSY 

For  it  grows  and  it  grows,  as  though  leaping 
Up  higher  the  more  one  is  thinking; 
And  ever  its  tunes  go  on  sinking 

More  poignantly  into  the  ears: 

Yea,  so  blessed  and  good  seems  that  fountain, 
Reach'd  after  dry  desert  and  mountain, 

You  shall  fall  down  at  length  in  your  weeping 

And  bathe  your  sad  face  in  the   tears. 

Then  alas  !    while  you  lie  there  a  season 
And  sob  between  living  and  dying, 
And  give  up  the  land  you  were  trying 

To  find  'mid  your  hopes  and  your  fears ; 

— O  the  world  shall  come  up  and  pass  o'er  you, 
Strong  men  shall  not  stay  to  care  for  you, 

Nor  wonder  indeed  for  what   reason 

Your  way  should  seem  harder  than  theirs. 

But  perhaps,  while  you  lie,  never  lifting 
Your  cheek  from  the  wet  leaves  it  presses, 
Nor  caring  to  raise  your  wet  tresses 

And  look  how  the  cold  world  appears — 
O  perhaps  the  mere  silences  round  you — 
All  things  in  that  place  Grief  hath  found  you — 

Yea,  e'en  to  the  clouds  o'er  you   drifting, 

May  soothe  you  somewhat  through  your  tears. 

You  may  feel,  when  a  falling  leaf  brushes 

Your  face,  as  though   some  one  had  kiss'd  you ; 
Or  think  at  least  some  one  who  miss'd  you 

Had  sent  you  a  thought, — if  that  cheers; 
Or  a  bird's  little  song,  faint  and  broken, 
May  pass  for  a  tender  word  spoken : 

— Enough,  while  around  you  there  rushes 

That  life-drowning  torrent  of  tears. 

1009 


ARTHUR  O'SHAUGHNESSY 

And  the  tears  shall  flow  faster  and  faster, 

Brim  over  and  baffle  resistance, 

And  roll  down  blear'd  roads  to  each   distance 
Of  past  desolation  and  years; 

Till  they  cover  the  place  of  each  sorrow, 

And  leave  you  no  past  and  no  morrow : 
For  wiiat  man  is  able  to  master 
And  stem  the  great  Fountain  of  Tears  ? 

But  the  floods  and  the  tears  meet  and  gather; 

The  sound  of  them  all  grows  like  thunder; 

— O  into  what  bosom,   I  wonder, 
Is  pour'd  the  whole  sorrow  of  years  ? 

For  Eternity  only  seems  keeping 

Account  of  the  great  human  weeping : 
May  God,  then,  the  Maker  and   Father — 
May  He  find  a  place  for  the  tears ! 


JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY 

831.  A  White  Rose 

1844-1890 

"THE  red  rose  whispers  of  passion, 
•*•      And  the  white  rose  breathes  of  love; 
O,  the  red  rose  is  a  falcon, 
And  the  white  rose  is  a  dove. 

But  I  send  you  a  cream-white  rosebud 

With  a  flush  on  its  petal  tips; 
For  the  love  that  is  purest  and  sweetest 

Has  a  kiss  of  desire  on  the  lips. 


ROBERT  BRIDGES 
My  Delight  and  Tfy  ' 


b.  1844 
JV(|Y  delight  and  thy  delight 

Walking,  like  two  angels  white, 
In  the  gardens  of  the  night: 

My  desire  and  thy  desire 
Twining  to  a  tongue  of  fire, 
Leaping  live,  and  laughing  higher: 

Thro'  the  everlasting  strife 
In  the  mystery  of  life. 


Love,  from  whom  the  world  begun, 
Hath  the  secret  of  the  sun. 

Love  can  tell,  and  love  alone, 
Whence  the  million  stars  were  strewn. 
Why  each  atom  knows  its  own, 
How,   in  spite  of  woe  and  death, 
Gay  is  life,  and  sweet  is  breath : 

This  he  taught  us,  this  we  knew, 
Happy  in  his  science  true, 
Hand  in  hand  as  we  stood 
'Neath  the  shadows  of  the  wood, 
Heart  to  heart  as  we  lay 
In  the  dawning  of  the  day. 


ROBERT  BRIDGES 


Spirits 

ANGEL  spirits  of  sleep, 
•**•     White-robed,  with  silver  hair, 
In  your  meadows  fair, 
Where  the  willows  weep, 
And  the  sad  moonbeam 
On  the  gliding  stream 
Writes  her  scatter'd  dream : 

Angel  spirits  of  sleep, 
Dancing  to  the  weir 
In  the  hollow  roar 
Of  its  waters  deep; 
Know  ye  how  men  say 
That  ye  haunt  no  more 
Isle  and  grassy  shore 
With  your  moonlit  play ; 
That  ye  dance  not  here, 
White-robed  spirits  of  sleep, 
All  the  summer  night 
Threading  dances  light? 

Nightingales 

"D  EAUTIFUL  must  be  the  mountains  whence  ye  come, 
^    And  bright  in  the  fruitful  valleys  the  streams,  wherefrom 

Ye  learn  your  song : 

Where  are  those  starry  woods  ?    O  might  I  wander  there, 
Among  the  flowers,  which  in  that  heavenly  air 

Bloom  the  year  long ! 

Nay,  barren  are  those  mountains  and  spent  the  streams: 
Our  song  is  the  voice  of  desire,  that  haunts  our  dreams, 


ROBERT  BRIDGES 

A  throe  of  the  heart, 

Whose  pining  visions  dim,  forbidden  hopes  profound, 
No  dying  cadence  nor  long  sigh  can  sound, 
For  all  our  art. 

Alone,  aloud  in  the  raptured  ear  of  men 
We  pour  our  dark  nocturnal  secret;    and  then, 

As  night  is  withdrawn 

From  these  sweet-springing  meads  and  bursting  boughs  of  May, 
Dream,   while  the  innumerable  choir  of  day 

Welcome  the  dawn. 


8$?.  A  Tasser-ty 

WTHITHER,  O  splendid  ship,  thy  white  sails  crowding, 

**       Leaning  across  the  bosom  of  the  urgent  West, 
That  fearest  nor  sea  rising,  nor  sky  clouding, 

Whither  away,  fair  rover,  and  what  thy  quest? 

Ah  !    soon,  when  Winter  has  all  our  vales  opprest, 
When  skies  are  cold  and  misty,  and  hail  is  hurling, 

Wilt  thou  glide  on  the  blue  Pacific,   or  rest 
In  a  summer  haven  asleep,  thy  white  sails  furling. 

I  there  before  thee,  in  the  country  that  well  thou  knowest, 
Already  arrived  am  inhaling  the  odorous  air  : 

I  watch  thee  enter  unerringly  where  thou  goest, 
And  anchor  queen  of  the  strange  shipping  there, 
Thy  sails  for  awnings  spread,  thy  masts  bare: 

Nor  is  aught  from  the  foaming  reef  to  the  snow-capp'd  grandest 
Peak,  that  is  over  the  feathery  palms,  more  fair 

Than  thou,   so  upright,   so  stately  and  still  thou  standest. 

1013 


ROBERT  BRIDGES 

And  yet,  O  splendid  ship,   unhail'd  and  nameless, 

I   know  not  if,  aiming  a  fancy,   I  rightly  divine 
That  thou  hast  a  purpose  joyful,  a  courage  blameless, 

Thy  port  assured  in  a  happier  land  than  mine. 

But  for  all  I  have  given  thee,  beauty  enough  is  thine, 
As  thou,  aslant  with  trim  tackle  and   shrouding, 

From  the  proud  nostril   curve  of  a  prow's  line 
In  the  offing  scatterest  foam,  thy  white  sails  crowding. 

8}  6.  Absence 

VVTHEN  my  love  was  away, 

**        Full  three  days  were  not  sped, 
I  caught  my  fancy  astray 
Thinking  if  she  were  dead, 

And  I  alone,   alone: 
It  seem'd  in  my  misery 
In  all  the  world  was  none 
Ever  so  lone  as  I. 

I  wept ;  but  it  did  not  shame 
Nor  comfort  my  heart :  away 
I  rode  as  I  might,  and  came 
To  my  love  at  close  of  day. 

The  sight  of  her  still'd  my  fears, 
My  fairest- hearted  love: 
And  yet  in  her  eyes  were  tears: 
Which  when  I  question'd  of, 

'O  now  thou  art  come,'  she  cried, 
'  'Tis  fled  :    but  I  thought  to-day 
I  never  could  here  abide, 
If  thou  wert  longer  away.' 


ROBERT  BRIDGES 


837.  On  a  Ttead  Child 

PERFECT  little  body,   without  fault  or  stain  on  thee, 
With  promise  of  strength  and  manhood  full  and  fair ! 

Though  cold  and  stark  and  bare, 
The  bloom  and  the  charm  of  life  doth  awhile  remain  on  thee. 

Thy  mother's  treasure  wert  thou ; — alas !    no  longer 
To  visit  her  heart  with  wondrous  joy ;    to  be 

Thy  father's  pride  : — ah,  he 
Must  gather  his  faith  together,  and  his  strength  make  stronger. 

To  me,   as  I  move  thee  now  in  the  last  duty, 
Dost  thou  with  a  turn  or  gesture  anon  respond ; 

Startling  my  fancy  fond 
With  a  chance  attitude  of  the  head,  a  freak  of  beauty. 

Thy  hand  clasps,   as  'twas  wont,   my  finger,  and  holds  it : 
But  the  grasp  is  the  clasp  of  Death,  heartbreaking  and  stiff; 

Yet  feels  to  my  hand  as  if 
'Twas  still  thy  will,  thy  pleasure  and  trust  that  enfolds  it. 

So  I  lay  thee  there,   thy  sunken  eyelids  closing, — 

Go  lie  thou  there  in  thy  coffin,   thy  last  little  bed !  — 

Propping  thy  wise,   sad  head, 
Thy  firm,   pale  hands  across  thy  chest  disposing. 

So  quiet!    doth   the  change  content  thee? — Death,  whither 

hath  he  taken  thee? 
To  a  world,  do  I  think,  that  rights  the  disaster  of  this  ? 

The  vision  of  which  I  miss, 

Who  weep  for  the  body,  and  wish  but  to  warm  thee  and 
awaken  tnee  ? 

1015 


ROBERT  BRIDGES 

Ah !    little  at  best  can  all  our  hopes  avail  us 

To  lift  this  sorrow,  or  cheer  us,  when  in  the  dark, 

Unwilling,   alone  we  embark, 

And   the  things  we   have   seen    and  have  known  and   have 
heard  of,  fail  us. 

838.  Tater  Filio 

CENSE  with  keenest  edge  unused, 
^     Yet  unsteel'd  by  scathing  fire; 
Lovely  feet  as  yet  unbruised 

On  the  ways  of  dark  desire ; 
Sweetest  hope  that  lookest  smiling 
O'er  the  wilderness  defiling  ! 

Why  such  beauty,  to  be  blighted 
By  the  swarm  of  foul  destruction  ? 

Why  such  innocence  delighted, 

When  sin  stalks  to  thy  seduction? 

All  the  litanies  e'er  chaunted 

Shall  not  keep  thy  faith  undaunted. 

I  have  pray'd  the  sainted  Morning 
To  unclasp  her  hands  to  hold  thee; 

From  resignful  Eve's  adorning 

Stol'n  a  robe  of  peace  to  enfold  thee; 

With  all  charms  of  man's  contriving 

Arm'd  thee  for  thy  lonely  striving. 

Me  too  once  unthinking  Nature, 

— Whence  Love's  timeless  mockery  took  me, — • 
Fashion'd  so  divine  a  creature, 

Yea,  and  like  a  beast  forsook  me. 
I  forgave,  but  tell  the  measure 
Of  her  crime  in  thee,  my  treasure. 
10.6 


ROBERT  BRIDGES 
8 $9.  Winter  Nightfall 

'""FHE  day  begins  to  droop, — 

Its  course  is  done : 
But  nothing  tells  the  place 
Of  the  setting  sun. 

The  hazy  darkness  deepens, 

And  up  the  lane 
You  may  hear,  but  cannot  see, 

The  homing  wain. 

An  engine  pants  and  hums 

In  the  farm  hard  by: 
Its  lowering  smoke  is  lost 

In  the  lowering  sky. 

The  soaking  branches  drip, 
And  all  night  through 

The  dropping  will  not  cease 
In  the  avenue. 

A  tall  man  there  in  the  house 

Must  keep  his  chair: 
He  knows  he  will  never  again 

Breathe  the  spring  air: 

His  heart  is  worn  with  work; 

He  is  giddy  and  sick 
If  he  rise  to  go  as  far 

As  the  nearest  rick: 

He  thinks  of  his  morn  of  life. 

His  hale,  strong  years  ; 
And  braves  as  he  may  the  night 

Of  darkness  and  tears. 

1017 


ROBERT  BRIDGES 


840.  When  "Death  to  Either  shall  come 


Death  to  either  shall  come,  — 
I  pray  it  be  first  to  me,  — 
Be  happy  as  ever  at  home, 
If  so,  as  I  wish,  it  be. 

Possess  thy  heart,  my  own  ; 

And  sing  to  the  child  on  thy  knee, 
Or  read  to  thyself  alone 

The  songs  that  I   made  for  thee. 


ANDREW  LANG 
41.  The  Odyssey 

b.  1844 

AS  one  that  for  a  weary  space  has  lain 
•**•     LulPd  by  the  song  of  Circe  and  her  wine 

In  gardens  near  the  pale  of  Proserpine, 
Where  that  ./Eaean  isle  forgets  the  main, 
And  only  the  low  lutes  of  love  complain, 
And  only  shadows  of  wan  lovers  pine — 
As  such  an  one  were  glad  to  know  the  brine 
Salt  on  his  lips,  and  the  large  air  again — 
So  gladly  from  the  songs  of  modern  speech 
Men  turn,  and  see  the  stars,  and  feel  the  free 
Shrill  wind  beyond  the  close  of  heavy  flowers, 
And  through  the  music  of  the  languid  hours 
They  hear  like  Ocean  on  a  western  beach 
The  surge  and  thunder  of  the  Odyssey. 


WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY 
842.  fnvictus 

/""NUT  of  the  night  that  covers  me, 
^— Black  as  the  pit  from  pole  to  pole, 
I  thank  whatever  gods  may  be 
For  my  unconquerable  soul. 

In  the  fell  clutch  of  circumstance 
I  have  not  winced  nor  cried  aloud. 

Under  the  bludgeonings  of  chance 
My  head  is  bloody,  but  unbow'd. 

Beyond  this  place  of  wrath  and  tears 
Looms  but  the  Horror  of  the  shade, 

And  yet  the  menace  of  the  years 
Finds  and  shall  find  me  unafraid. 

It  matters  not  how  strait  the  gate, 

How  charged  with  punishments  the  scroll, 

I  am  the  master  of  my  fate : 
I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul. 


3.  Margarita  Sorort 

A     LATE  lark  twitters  from  the  quiet  skies 
**•     And  from  the  west, 
Where  the  sun,  his  day's  work  ended, 
Lingers  as  in  content, 
There  falls  on  the  old,  gray  city 
An  influence  luminous  and  serene, 
A  shining  peace. 


WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY 

The  smoke  ascends 

In  a  rosy-and-golden  haze.     The  spires 

Shine  and  are  changed.     In  the  valley 

Shadows  rise.     The  lark  sings  on.     The  sun, 

Closing  his  benediction, 

Sinks,  and  the  darkening  air 

Thrills  with  a  sense  of  the  triumphing  night — 

Night  with  her  train  of  stars 

And  her  great  gift  of  sleep. 

So  be  my  passing  ! 

My  task  accomplish'd  and  the  long  day  done, 

My  wages  taken,  and  in  my  heart 

Some  late  lark  singing, 

Let  me  be  gather'd  to  the  quiet  west, 

The  sundown  splendid  and  serene, 

Death. 


England,  My  England 

WfHAT  have  I  done  for  you, 

™        England,  my  England? 
What  is  there  I  would  not  do, 

England,  my  own? 
With  your  glorious  eyes  austere, 
As  the  Lord  were  walking  near, 
Whispering  terrible  things  and  dear 

As  the  Song  on  your  bugles  blown. 
England — 

Round  the  world  on  your  bugles  blown 


WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY 

Where  shall  the  watchful  sun, 

England,  my  England, 
Match  the  master-work  you've  done, 

England,  my  own  ? 
When  shall  he  rejoice  agen 
Such  a  breed  of  mighty  men 
As  come  forward,  one  to  ten, 

To  the  Song  on  your  bugles  blown, 
England — 

Down  the  years  on  your  bugles  blown  ? 


Ever  the  faith  endures, 

England,  my  England  : — 
'  Take  and  break  us :    we  are  yours, 

England,  my  own ! 
Life  is  good,  and  joy  runs  high 
Between  English  earth  and  sky : 
Death  is  death ;    but  we  shall  die 

To  the  Song  on  your  bugles  blown, 
England — 

To  the  stars  on  your  bugles  blown ! ' 

They  call  you  proud  and  hard, 

England,  my  England: 
You  with  worlds  to  watch  and  ward, 

England,  my  own ! 

You  whose  mail'd  hand  keeps  the  keys 
Of  such  teeming  destinies, 
You  could  know  nor  dread  nor  ease 

Were  the  Song  on  your  bugles  blown, 
England, 

Round  the  Pit  on  your  bugles  blown! 


WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY 

Mother  of  Ships  whose  might, 

England,  my  England, 
Is  the  fierce  old  Sea's  delight, 

England,  my  own, 
Chosen  daughter  of  the  Lord, 
Spouse-in-Chief  of  the  ancient  Sword, 
There 's  the  menace  of  the  Word 

In  the  Song  on  your  bugles  blown, 
England — 

Out  of  heaven  on  your  bugles  blown! 


EDMUND  GOSSE 
84?.  Revelation 

tx'849 

INTO  the  silver  night 

She  brought  with  her  pale  hand 
The  topaz  lanthorn-light, 
And  darted  splendour  o'er  the  land; 

Around  her  in  a  band, 
Ringstraked  and  pied,  the  great  soft  moths  came  flying. 

And  flapping  with  their  mad  wings,  fann'd 
The  flickering  flame,  ascending,   falling,   dying. 

Behind  the  thorny  pink 

Close  wall  of  blossom'd  may, 
I  gazed  thro*  one  green  chink 
And  saw  no  more  than  thousands  may, — 

Saw  sweetness,  tender  and  gay, — 
Saw  full  rose  lips  as  rounded  as  the  cherry, 

Saw  braided  locks  more  dark  than  bay, 
And  flashing  eyes  decorous,  pure,   and  merry. 


EDMUND  GOSSE 

With  food  for  furry  friends 

She  pass'd,  her  lamp  and  she, 
Till  eaves  and  gable-ends 
Hid  all  that  saffron  sheen  from  me: 

Around  my  rosy  tree 
Once  more  the  silver-starry  night  was  shining, 

With  depths  of  heaven,  dewy  and  free, 
And  crystals  of  a  carven  moon  declining. 

Alas !    for  him  who  dwells 
In  frigid  air  of  thought, 
When  warmer  light  dispels 
The  frozen  calm  his  spirit  sought ; 

By  life  too  lately  taught 
He  sees  the  ecstatic  Human  from  him  stealing; 

Reels  from  the  joy  experience  brought, 
And  dares  not  clutch  what  Love  was  half  revealing. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

846.  Romance 

1850-1894 

F    WILL  make  you  brooches  and  toys  for  your  delight 

Of  bird-song  at  morning  and  star-shine  at  night. 
I  will  make  a  palace  fit  for  you  and  me, 
Of  green  days  in  forests  and  blue  days  at  sea. 

I  will  make  my  kitchen,  and  you  shall  keep  your  room, 
Where  white  flows  the  river  and  bright  blows  the  broom, 
And  you  shall  wash  your  linen  and  keep  your  body  white 
In  rainfall  at  morning  and  dewfall  at  night. 

1023 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

And  this  shall  be  for  music  when  no  one  else  is  near, 
The  fine  song  for  singing,  the  rare  song  to  hear  ! 
That  only  I  remember,  that  only  you  admire, 
Of  the  broad  road  that  stretches  and  the  roadside  fire. 


84.7.  In  the  Highlands 

T  N  the  highlands,   in  the  country  places, 
*•      Where  the  old  plain  men  have  rosy  faces, 
And  the  young  fair  maidens 

Quiet  eyes  ; 

Where  essential  silence  chills  and  blesses, 
And  for  ever  in  the  hill-recesses 
Her  more  lovely  music 
Broods  and  dies — 

O  to  mount  again  where  erst  I  haunted  ; 
Where  the  old  red  hills  are  bird-enchanted, 
And  the  low  green  meadows 

Bright  with  sward; 

And  when  even  dies,  the  million-tinted, 
And  the  night  has  come,   and  planets  glinted, 
Lo,  the  valley  hollow 
Lamp-bestarr'd ! 

O  to  dream,   O  to  awake  and  wander 
There,  and  with  delight  to  take  and  render, 
Through  the  trance  of  silence, 

Quiet  breath  ! 

Lo !    for  there,  among  the  flowers  and  grasses, 
Only  the  mightier  movement  sounds  and  passes ; 
Only  winds  and  rivers, 
Life  and  death. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 
848.  Requiem 

T  JNDER  the  wide  and  starry  sky 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie  : 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die, 
And  I   laid  me  down  with  a  will. 

This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me: 
Here  he  lies  where  he  longd  to  be  ; 
Home  is  the  sailor,   home  from  sea, 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill. 

T.  W.  ROLLESTON 
#49.        The  T)eacl  at  Clonmacnots 

FROM    THE    IRISH    OF    ANGUS    o'GILLAN 

TN  a  quiet  water'd  land,  a  land  of  roses, 

Stands  Saint  Kieran's  city  fair  ; 
And  the  warriors  of  Erin  in  their  famous  generations 

Slumber  there. 

There  beneath  the  dewy  hillside  sleep  the  noblest 

Of  the  clan  of  Conn, 
Each  below  his  stone  with  name  in  branching  Ogham 

And  the  sacred  knot  thereon. 

There  they  laid  to  rest  the  seven   Kings  of  Tara, 

There  the  sons  of  Cairbre  sleep — 
Battle-banners  of  the  Gael  that  in    Kieran's  plain  of  crosses 

Now  their  final   hosting  keep. 

And  in  Clonmacnois  they  laid  the  men  of  Teffia, 

And  right  many  a  lord  of  Breagh  ; 
Deep  the  sod  above  Clan  Creide  and  Clan  Conaill, 

Kind  in  hall  and  fierce  in  fray. 

L!  1025 


T.  W.  ROLLESTON 

Many  and  many  a  son  of  Conn  the  Hundred-Fighter 

In  the  red  earth  lies  at  rest ; 
Many  a  blue  eye  of  Clan  Colman  the  turf  covers, 

Many  a  swan-white  breast. 


JOHN  DAVIDSON 
8?o.  Song 

b.  1857 

""THE  boat  is  chafing  at  our  long  delay, 
*•       And  we  must  leave  too  soon 
The  spicy  sea-pinks  and  the  inborne  spray, 
The  tawny  sands,  the  moon. 

Keep  us,  O  Thetis,   in  our  western  flight! 

Watch   from  thy  pearly  throne 
Our  vessel,   plunging  deeper  into  night 

To  reach  a  land  unknown. 


8?i.  The  Last  Rose 

I  r\   WHICH  is  the  last  rose? 

^-'      A  blossom  of  no  name. 
At  midnight  the  snow  came ; 
At  daybreak  a  vast  rose, 
In  darkness  un  fur  I'd, 
O'er-petalFd  the  world. 

Its  odourless  pallor 
Blossom'd  forlorn, 
Till  radiant  valour 
Established  the  morn — 
10*6 


JOHN  DAVIDSON 

Till  the  night 
Was  undone 
In  her  fight 
With  the  sun. 

The  brave  orb  in  state  rose, 
And  crimson  he  shone  first; 
While  from  the  high  vine 
Of  heaven  the  dawn  burst, 
Staining  the  great  rose 
From  sky-line  to  sky-line. 

The  red  rose  of  morn 

A  white  rose  at  noon  turn'd; 

But  at  sunset  reborn 

All  red  again  soon  burn'd. 

Then  the  pale  rose  of  noonday 

Rebloom'd  in  the  night, 

And  spectrally  white 

In  the  light 
Of  the  moon  lay. 

But  the  vast  rose 

Was  scentless, 
And  this  is  the  reason: 
When  the  blast  rose 

Relentless, 

And  brought  in  due  season 
The  snow  rose,  the  last  rose 
Congeal'd  in  its  breath, 
Then  came  with  it  treason; 
The  traitor  was  Death. 

In  lee-valleys  crowded, 
The  sheep  and  the  birds 


JOHN  DAVIDSON 

Were  frozen  and  shrouded 

In  flights  and  in  herds. 

In  highways 

And  byways 

The  young  and  the  old 

Were  tortured  and  madden'd 

And  kill'd  by  the  cold. 

But  many  were  gladden'd 

By  the  beautiful  last  rose, 

The  blossom  of  no  name 

That  came  when  the  snow  came, 

In  darkness  unfurl'd — 

The  wonderful   vast  rose 

That  fill'd  all  the  world. 


WILLIAM  WATSON 
8? 2.  Song 

b.iSjR 

APRIL,  April, 

•**•     Laugh  thy  girlish  laughter; 
Then,   the  moment  after, 
Weep  thy  girlish  tears  1 
April,  that  mine  ears 
Like  a  lover  greetest, 
If  I  tell  thee,  sweetest, 
All  my  hopes  and  fears, 
April,  April, 

Laugh  thy  golden  laughter, 
But,  the  moment  after, 
Weep  thy  golden  tears ! 


WILLIAM  WATSON 
8? 3.  Ode  in  May 

T   ET  me  go  forth,  and  share 
*-'      The  overflowing  Sun 

With  one  wise  friend,   or  one 
Better  than  wise,   being  fair, 
Where  the  pewit  wheels  and  dips 

On  heights  of  bracken  and  ling, 
And  Earth,   unto  her  leaflet  tips, 

Tingles  with  the  Spring. 

What  is  so  sweet  and  dear 

As  a  prosperous  morn  in  May, 
The  confident  prime  of  the  day, 

And  the  dauntless  youth  of  the  year, 

When  nothing  that  asks  for  bliss, 
Asking  aright,   is  denied. 

And  half  of  the  world  a  bridegroom  is, 
And  half  of  the  world  a  bride  I 

The  Song  of  Mingling  flows, 

Grave,  ceremonial,   pure, 

As  once,   from  lips  that  endure, 
The  cosmic  descant  rose, 
When  the  temporal  lord  of  life, 

Going  his  golden   way, 
Had  taken  a  wondrous  maid  to  wife 

That  long  had  said  him  nay. 

For  of  old  the  Sun,   our  sire, 
Came  wooing  the  mother  of  men, 
Earth,   that  was  virginal  then, 

Vestal  fire  to  his  fire. 

Silent  her  bosom  and  coy, 

But  the  strong  god  sued  and  pressed; 


WILLIAM  WATSON 

And  born  of  their  starry  nuptial  joy 
Are  all  that  drink  of  her  breast. 

And  the  triumph  of  him  that  begot, 

And  the  travail  of  her  that  bore, 

Behold  they  are  evermore 
As  warp  and  weft  in  our  lot. 
We  are  children  of  splendour  and  flame, 

Of  shuddering,  also,  and  tears. 
Magnificent  out  of  the  dust  we  came, 

And  abject  from  the  Spheres. 
O  bright  irresistible  lord  ! 

We  are  fruit  of  Earth's  womb,  each  one, 

And  fruit  of  thy  loins,   O  Sun, 
Whence  first  was  the  seed  outpour'd. 
To  thee  as  our  Father  we  bow, 

Forbidden  thy  Father  to  see, 
Who  is  older  and  greater  than  thou,   as  thou 

Art  greater  and  older  than  we. 
Thou  art  but  as  a  word  of  his  speech  ; 

Thou  art  but  as  a  wave  of  his  hand; 

Thou  art  brief  as  a  glitter  of  sand 
'Twixt  tide  and  tide  on  his  beach  ; 
Thou  art  less  than  a  spark  of  his  fire, 

Or  a  moment's  mood  of  his  soul  : 
Thou  art  lost  in  the  notes  on  the  lips  of  his  choir 

That  chant  the  chant  of  the  Whole. 


The  Great  Misgiving 

VTOT  ours,'  say  some,  'the  thought  of  death  to  dread; 

Asking  no  heaven,  we  fear  no  fabled  hell  : 
Life  is  a  feast,   and  we  have  banqueted  — 
Shall  not  the  worms  as  well  ? 


1030 


WILLIAM  WATSON 

'The  after-silence,  when  the  feast  is  o'er, 

And  void  the  places  where  the  minstrels  stood, 

Differs  in  nought  from  what  hath  been  before, 
And  is  nor  ill  nor  good.' 

Ah,  but  the  Apparition — the  dumb  sign — 
The  beckoning  finger  bidding  me  forgo 

The  fellowship,  the  converse,  and  the  wine, 
The  songs,  the  festal  glow ! 

And  ah,   to  know  not,  while  with  friends  I  sit, 
And  while  the  purple  joy  is  pass'd  about, 

Whether  'tis  ampler  day  divinelier  lit 
Or  homeless  night  without; 

And  whether,   stepping  forth,  my  soul  shall  see 
New  prospects,   or  fall  sheer — a  blinded  thing  ! 

There  is,   O  grave,  thy  hourly  victory, 
And  there,   O  death,  thy  sting. 


HENRY  CHARLES  BEECHING 

GOD  who  created  me 
Nimble  and  light  of  limb, 
In  three  elements  free, 

To  run,  to  ride,  to  swim  : 
Not  when  the  sense  is  dim, 

But  now  from  the  heart  of  joy, 
I  would  remember  Him: 
Take  the  thanks  of  a  boy. 

1031 


HENRY  CHARLES  BEECHING 

Jesu,    King  and  Lord, 

Whose  are  my  foes  to  fight, 
Gird  me  with  Thy  sword 

Swift  and  sharp  and  bright. 
Thee  would   I  serve  if  I  might ; 

And  conquer  if  I  can, 
From  day-dawn  till  night, 

Take  the  strength  of  a  man. 

Spirit  of  Love  and  Truth, 

Breathing  in  grosser  clay, 
The  light  and  flame  of  youth, 

Delight  of  men  in  the  fray, 
Wisdom  in  strength's  decay ; 

From  pain,   strife,   wrong  to  be  free, 
This  best  gift  I  pray, 

Take  my  spirit  to  Thee. 

8?  6.  Going  down  Hill  on  a  Bicycle 

A  BOY'S  SONG 
rITH  lifted  feet,  hands  still, 

I  am  poised,  and  down  the  hill 
Dart,   with  heedful  mind ; 
The  air  goes  by  in  a  wind. 

Swifter  and  yet  more  swift, 
Till  the  heart  with  a  mighty  lift 
Makes  the  lungs  laugh,  the  throat  cry: — 
4O  bird,   see;    see,  bird,   I  fly. 

*  Is  this,  is  this  your  joy  ? 
O  bird,  then  I,  though  a  boy, 
For  a  golden  moment  share 
Your  feathery  life  in  air ! ' 

I03a 


HENRY  CHARLES  BEECHING 

Say,  heart,   is  there  aught  like  this 
In  a  world  that  is  full  of  bliss? 
'Tis  more  than  skating,  bound 
Steel-shod  to  the  level  ground. 

Speed  slackens  now,   I  float 
Awhile  in  my  airy  boat ; 
Till,  when  the  wheels  scarce  crawl, 
My  feet  to  the  treadles  fall. 

Alas,   that  the  longest  hill 
Must  end  in  a  vale ;    but  still, 
Who  climbs  with  toil,   wheresoe'er, 
Shall  find  wings  waiting  there. 


BLISS  CARMAN 

Wh 

b.  1861 


"C 
*• 


OR  a  name  unknown, 
Whose  fame  unblown 
Sleeps  in  the  hills 
For  ever  and  aye  ; 


For  her  who  hears 
The  stir  of  the  years 
Go  by  on  the  wind 
By  night  and  day  ; 

And  heeds  no  thing 
Of  the  needs  of  spring, 
Of  autumn's  wonder 
Or  winter's  chill  ; 

L  1  3 


BLISS  CARMAN 

For  one  who  sees 
The  great  sun  freeze, 
As  he  wanders  a-cold 
From  hill  to  hill; 

And  all  her  heart 
Is  a  woven  part 
Of  the  flurry  and  drift 
Of  whirling  snow; 

For  the  sake  of  two 
Sad  eyes  and  true, 
And  the  old,  old  love 
So  long  ago. 


DOUGLAS  HYDE 
8f$.  My  Grief  on  the  Sea 


M 


FROM    THE    IRISH 

b.  1861 

Y  grief  on  the  sea, 

How  the  waves  of  it  roll ! 


For  they  heave  between  me 
And  the  love  of  my  soul ! 

Abandon'd,    forsaken, 
To  grief  and  to  care, 

Will  the  sea  ever  waken 
Relief  from  despair? 

My  grief  and  my  trouble ! 

Would  he  and  I  were, 
In  the  province  of  Leinster, 

Or  County  of  Clare! 
103* 


DOUGLAS  HYDE 

Were  I  and  my  darling  — 
O  heart-bitter  wound!  — 

On  board  of  the  ship 
For  America  bound. 

On  a  green  bed  of  rushes 

All  last  night  I  lay, 
And  I  flung  it  abroad 

With  the  heat  of  the  day. 

And  my  Love  came  behind  me, 
He  came  from  the  South; 

His  breast  to  my  bosom, 
His  mouth  to  my  mouth. 


ARTHUR  CHRISTOPHER  BENSON 
The  Phoenix 

b.  1862 
ID  Y  feathers  green,  across  Casbeen 

The  pilgrims  track  the  Phoenix  flown, 
By  gems  he  strew'd  in  waste  and  wood, 
And  jewell'd  plumes  at  random  thrown. 

Till  wandering  far,  by  moon  and  star, 
They  stand  beside  the  fruitful   pyre, 

Where  breaking  bright  with  sanguine  light 
The  impulsive  bird  forgets  his  sire. 

Those  ashes  shine  like  ruby  wine, 

Like  bag  of  Tyrian  murex  spilt, 
The  claw,  the  jowl  of  the  flying  fowl 

Are  with  the  glorious  anguish  gilt. 


ARTHUR  CHRISTOPHER  BENSON 

So  rare  the  light,   so  rich  the  sight, 
Those  pilgrim  men,  on  profit  bent, 

Drop  hands  and  eyes  and  merchandise, 
And  are  with  gazing  most  content. 


HENRY  NEWBOLT 
860.          He  fell  among   Thieves 

b.  1 861 
'\^E  have  robb'd,'  said  he,  'ye  have  slaughter'd  and  made 

an  end, 

Take  your  ill-got  plunder,  and  bury  the  dead : 
What  will  ye  more  of  your  guest  and  sometime  friend  ? ' 
'  Blood  for  our  blood,'  they  said. 

He  laugh'd  :    '  If  one  may  settle  the  score  for  five, 
I  am  ready ;    but  let  the  reckoning  stand  till  day : 

I  have  loved  the  sunlight  as  dearly  as  any  alive.' 
'  You  shall  die  at  dawn,'  said  they. 

He  flung  his  empty  revolver  down  the  slope, 

He  climb'd  alone  to  the  Eastward  edge  of  the  trees; 

All  night  long  in  a  dream  untroubled  of  hope 
He  brooded,   clasping  his  knees. 

He  did  not  hear  the  monotonous  roar  that  fills 
The  ravine  where  the  Yassin  river  sullenly  flows  ; 

He  did  not  see  the  starlight  on  the  Laspur  hills, 
Or  the  far  Afghan  snows. 

He  saw  the  April   noon  on  his  books  aglow, 
The  wistaria  trailing  in  at  the  window  wide ; 

He  heard  his  father's  voice  from  the  terrace  below 
Calling  him  down  to  ride. 
.036 


HENRY  NEWBOLT 

He  saw  the  gray  little  church  across  the  park, 

The  mounds  that  hid  the  loved  and  honour'd  dead; 

The  Norman  arch,  the  chancel  softly  dark, 
The  brasses  black  and  red. 

He  saw  the  School  Close,  sunny  and  green, 

The  runner  beside  him,  the  stand  by   the  parapet  wall, 

The  distant  tape,  and  the  crowd  roaring  between, 
His  own  name  over  all. 

He  saw  the  dark  wainscot  and  timber'd  roof, 
The  long  tables,  and  the  faces  merry  and  keen; 

The  College  Eight  and  their  trainer  dining  aloof, 
The  Dons  on  the  dai's  serene. 

He  watch'd  the  liner's  stem  ploughing  the  foam, 

He  felt  her  trembling  speed  and  the  thrash  of  her  screw 

He  heard  the  passengers'  voices  talking  of  home, 
He  saw  the  flag  she  flew. 

And  now  it  was  dawn.  He  rose  strong  on  his  feet, 
And  strode  to  his  ruin'd  camp  below  the  wood ; 

He  drank  the  breath  of  the  morning  cool  and  sweet: 
His  murderers  round  him  stood. 

Light  on  the  Laspur  hills  was  broadening  fast, 

The  blood-red  snow-peaks  chill'd  to  a  dazzling  white ; 

He  turn'd,  and  saw  the  golden  circle  at  last, 
Cut  by  the  Eastern  height. 

'  O  glorious  Life,  Who  dwellest  in  earth  and  sun, 

I  have  lived,   I  praise  and  adore  Thee.' 

A  sword  swept. 
Over  the  pass  the  voices  one  by  one 

Faded,  and  the  hill  slept. 


GILBERT  PARKER 
861.  Reunited 

b.  1 86* 

EN  you  and  I  have  play'd  the  little  hour, 
Have  seen  the  tall  subaltern  Life  to  Death 
Yield  up  his  sword;    and,  smiling,  draw  the  breath, 
The  first  long  breath  of  freedom;    when  the  flower 
Of  Recompense  hath  flutter'd  to  our  feet, 
As  to  an  actor's ;    and,  the  curtain  down, 
We  turn  to  face  each  other  all  alone — 
Alone,  we  two,   who  never  yet  did  meet, 
Alone,   and  absolute,  and  free:     O  then, 

O  then,  most  dear,  how  shall  be  told  the  tale? 
Clasp'd  hands,  press'd  lips,  and  so  clasp'd  hands  again; 
No  words.     But  as  the  proud  wind  fills  the  sail, 
My  love  to  yours  shall  reach,   then  one  deep  moan 
Of  joy,  and  then  our  infinite  Alone. 


WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS 

862  Where  My  Books  go 

b.  .865 

ALL  the  words  that  I  utter, 
And  all  the  words  that  I  write, 
Must  spread  out  their  wings  untiring, 

And  never  rest  in  their  flight, 
Till  they  come  where  your  sad,  sad  heart  is, 

And  sing  to  you  in  the  night, 
Beyond  where  the  waters  are  moving, 
Storm-darken'd  or  starry  bright. 


WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS 


863.  When  Tou  are  Old 


you  are  old  and  gray  and  full  of  sleep 
And  nodding  by  the  fire,  take  down  this  book, 
And  slowly  read,  and  dream  of  the  soft  look 
Your  eyes  had  once,   and  of  their  shadows  deep; 

How  many  loved  your  moments  of  glad  grace, 
And  loved  your  beauty  with  love  false  or  true  ; 
But  one  man  loved  the  pilgrim  soul  in  you, 

And  loved  the  sorrows  of  your  changing  face. 

And  bending  down  beside  the  glowing  bars, 
Murmur,  a  little  sadly,   how  love  fled 
And  paced  upon  the  mountains  overhead, 

And  hid  his  face  amid  a  crowd  of  stars. 

864.      The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree 

I    WILL  arise  and  go  now,  and  go  to  Innisfree, 
And  a  small  cabin  build  there,  of  clay  and  wattles  made ; 
Nine  bean  rows  will  I  have  there,  a  hive  for  the  honey  bee, 
And  live  alone  in  the  bee-loud  glade. 

And  I  shall  have  some  peace  there,  for  peace  comes  dropping 

slow, 
Dropping  from  the  veils  of  the  morning  to  where  the  cricket 

sings ; 

There  midnight's  all  a  glimmer,  and  noon  a  purple  glow, 
And  evening  full  of  the  linnet's  wings. 

I  will  arise  and  go  now,  for  always  night  and  day 
I  hear  lake  water  lapping  with  low  sounds  by  the  shore; 
While  I  stand  on  the  roadway,  or  on  the  pavements  gray, 
I  hear  it  in  the  deep  heart's  core. 

1039 


RUDYARD  KIPLING 
86f.  A  "Dedication 

JV^Y  new-cut  ashlar  takes  the  light 
1V1      Where  crimson-blank  the  windows  flare- 
By  mj   own  work,  before  the  night, 
Great  Overseer,   I  make  my  prayer. 

If  there  be  good  in  that  I  wrought, 
Thy  hand  compell'd  it,  Master,  Thint  $ 

Where  I  have  fail'd  to  meet  Thy  thought 
I  know,  through  Thee,  the  blame  is  mine. 

One  instant's  toil  to  Thee  denied 

Stands  all  Eternity's  offence; 
Of  that  I  did  with  Thee  to  guide 

To  Thee,  through  Thee,  be  excellence. 

Who,  lest  all  thought  of  Eden  fade, 
Bring'st  Eden  to  the  craftsman's  brain, 

Godlike  to  muse  o'er  his  own  trade 
And  manlike  stand  with  God  again. 

The  depth  and  dream  of  my  desire, 
The  bitter  paths  wherein  I  stray, 

Thou  knowest  Who  hast  made  the  Fire, 
Thou  knowest  Who  hast  made  the  Clay. 

One  stone  the  more  swings  to  her  place 
In  that  dread  Temple  of  Thy  worth  — 

It  is  enough  that  through  Thy  grace 
I  saw  naught  common  on  Thy  earth. 


KUDYARD  KIPLING 

Take  not  that  vision  from  my  ken; 

O,   whatsoe'er  may  spoil  or  speed, 
Help  me  to  need  no  aid  from  men, 

That  I  may  help  such  men  as  need! 

866.  L*  Envoi 

"THERE'S  a  whisper  down  the  field  where  the  year  has 

shot  her  yield 

And  the  ricks  stand  gray  to  the  sun, 
Singing: — 'Over  then,    come    over,    for   the    bee    has    quit 

the  clover 
And  your  English  summer's  done.' 

You  have  heard  the  beat  of  the  off-shore  wind 
And  the  thresh  of  the  deep-sea  rain ; 
You   have  heard  the  song — how  long !    how  long ! 
Pull  out  on  the  trail  again ! 

Ha*  done  with  the  Tents  of  Shem,  dear  lass, 

We've  seen  the  seasons  through, 

And  it's  time  to  turn  on  the  old  trail,  our  own  trail,  the 

out  trail, 
Pull    out,  pull   out,   on  the   Long    Trail — the   trail   that  is 

always  new. 
It 's  North  you  may  run  to  the  rime-ring'd  sun, 

Or  South  to  the  blind  Horn's  hate ; 
Or  East  all  the  way  into  Mississippi  Bay, 

Or  West  to  the  Golden  Gate; 
Where  the  blindest  bluffs  hold  good,  dear  lass, 
And  the  wildest  tales  are  true, 
And  the  men  bulk  big  on  the  old  trail,  our  own  trail,  the 

out  trail, 
And   life  runs  large  on   the   Long  Trail— the  trail  that  is 

always  new. 


RUDYARD  KIPLING 

The  days  are  sick  and  cold,  and  the  skies  are  gray  and  old, 

And  the  twice-breathed  airs  blow  damp; 
And  I'd  sell  my  tired  soul  for  the  bucking  beam-sea  roll 

Of  a  black  Bilbao  tramp ; 
With  her  load-line  over  her  hatch,  dear  lass, 
And  a  drunken  Dago  crew, 
And  her  nose  held   down   on  the  old  trail,  our  own  trail, 

the  out  trail, 

From    Cadiz    Bar   on    the    Long    Trail — the    trail   that   is 
always  new. 

There  be  triple  ways  to  take,  of  the  eagle  or  the  snake, 

Or  the  way  of  a  man  with  a  maid ; 
But  the  sweetest  way  to  me  is  a  ship's  upon  the  sea 

In  the  heel  of  the  North-East  Trade. 
Can  you  hear  the  crash  on  her  bows,  dear  lass, 
And  the  drum  of  the  racing  screw, 
As  she  ships  it  green  on  the  old  trail,  our  own  trail,  the 

out  trail, 

As  she  lifts  and  'scends  on  the  Long  Trail— the  trail  that 
is  always  new? 

See  the  shaking  funnels  roar,  with  the  Peter  at  the  fore, 

And  the  fenders  grind  and  heave, 
And    the    derricks    clack    and    grate,   as   the    tackle   hooks 

the  crate, 

And  the  fall-rope  whines  through  the  sheave; 
It's  'Gang-plank  up  and  in,'  dear  lass, 
It 's  '  Hawsers  warp  her  through  !  ' 
And  it's  'All  clear  aft'  on  the  old  trail,  our  own  trail, 

the  out  trail, 

We're  backing  down  on  the  Long  Trail — the   trail  that  is 
always  new. 
104* 


RUDYARD  KIPLING 

O  the  mutter  overside,  when  the  port-fog  holds  us  tied, 

And  the  sirens  hoot  their  dread! 
When  foot  by  foot  we  creep  o'er  the  hueless  viewless  deep 

To  the  sob  of  the  questing  lead ! 
It's  down  by  the  Lower  Hope,  dear  lass, 
With  the  Gunfleet  Sands  in  view, 
Till   the    Mouse   swings   green    on  the   old  trail,   our  own 

trail,  the  out  trail, 
And  the  Gull    Light  lifts   on   the    Long   Trail— the   trail 

that  is  always  new. 

O  the  blazing  tropic  night,  when  the  wake  's  a  welt  of  light 

That  holds  the  hot  sky  tame, 
And  the  steady  fore-foot  snores  through  the  planet-powder'd 

floors 

Where  the  scared  whale  flukes  in  flame! 
Her  plates  are  scarr'd  by  the  sun,  dear  lass, 
And  her  ropes  are  taunt  with  the  dew, 
For  we're  booming  down  on  the  old  trail,  our  own  trail,  the 

out  trail, 
We're  sagging  south  on  the  Long  Trail — the  trail  that  is 

always  new. 

Then  home,  get  her  home,  where  the  drunken  rollers  comb, 

And  the  shouting  seas  drive  by, 
And  the  engines   stamp   and  ring,  and  the  wet  bows  reel 

and  swing, 

And  the  Southern  Cross  rides  high ! 
Yes,  the  old  lost  stars  wheel  back,  dear  lass, 
That  blaze  in  the  velvet  blue. 
They're  all  old  friends  on  the  old  trail,  our  own  trail,  the 

out  trail, 

They're  God's  own  guides   on  the   Long  Trail— the  trail 
that  is  always  new. 

'043 


RUDYARD  KIPLING 

Fly  forward,  O  my  heart,  from  the  Foreland  to  the  Start — 

We're  steaming  all  too  slow, 
And  it's  twenty  thousand  mile  to  our  little  lazy  isle 

Where  the  trumpet-orchids  blow ! 
You  have  heard  the  call  of  the  ofF-shore  wind 
And  the  voice  of  the  deep-sea  rain  ; 
You  have  heard  the  song — how  long !    how  long ! 

Pull  out  on  the  trail  again  ? 

The  Lord  knows  what  we  may  find,  dear  lass, 

And  the  deuce  knows  what  we  may  do — 

But  we're  back  once  more  on  the  old  trail,  our  own  trail, 

the  out  trail, 
We're  down,  hull  down  on  the  Long  Trail— the  trail  that 

is  always  new. 


867.  Recessional 

June  22, 


f*  OD  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old- 
^-*  Lord  of  our  far-flung  battle-line- 
Beneath  whose  awful  Hand  we  hold 

Dominion  over  palm  and  pine  — 
Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget,  lest  we  forget  ! 

The  tumult  and  the  shouting  dies  — 
The  captains  and  the  kings  depart  — 

Still  stands  Thine  ancient  sacrifice, 
An  humble  and  a  contrite  heart. 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget,  lest  we  forget  ! 

1044 


RUDYARD  KIPLING 

Far-call'd  our  navies  melt  away — 

On  dune  and  headland  sinks  the  fire — 

Lo,  all  our  pomp  of  yesterday 
Is  one  with  Nineveh  and  Tyre ! 

Judge  of  the  Nations,   spare  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget,  lest  we  forget ! 

If.   drunk  with  sight  of  power,  we  loose 

Wild  tongues  that  have  not  Thee  in  awe- 
Such  boasting  as  the  Gentiles  use 

Or  lesser  breeds  without  the  Law — 
Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget,   lest  we  forget ! 

For  heathen  heart  that  puts  her  trust 
In  reeking  tube  and  iron  shard — 

All  valiant  dust  that  builds  on  dust, 

And  guarding  calls  not  Thee  to  guard — 

For  frantic  boast  and  foolish  word, 

Thy  Mercy  on  Thy  People,   Lord! 


RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE 
868.  Song 

b.  ,866 

SHE  's  somewhere  in  the  sunlight  strong, 
Her  tears  are  in  the  falling  rain, 
She  calls  me  in  the  wind's  soft  song, 
And  with  the  flowers  she  comes  again. 

Yon  bird  is  but  her  messenger, 

The  moon  is  but  her  silver  car; 
Yea !    sun  and  moon  are  sent  by  her, 

And  every  wistful  waiting  star. 


RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE 


869.          The  Second  Crucifixion 

T   OUD  mockers  in  the  roaring  street 
^"**      Say  Christ  is  crucified  again : 
Twice  pierced  His  gospel-bearing  feet, 
Twice  broken  His  great  heart  in  vain. 

I  hear,  and  to  myself  I  smile, 

For  Christ  talks  with  me  all  the  while. 

No  angel  now  to  roll  the  stone 
From  off  His  unawaking  sleep, 

In  vain  shall  Mary  watch  alone, 
In  vain  the  soldiers  vigil  keep. 

Yet  while  they  deem  my  Lord  is  dead 
My  eyes  are  on  His  shining  head. 

Ah  !    never  more  shall  Mary  hear 
That  voice  exceeding  sweet  and  low 

Within  the  garden  calling  clear: 

Her  Lord  is  gone,  and  she  must  go. 

Yet  all  the  while  my  Lord  I  meet 
In  every  London  lane  and  street. 

Poor  Lazarus  shall  wait  in  vain, 
And  Bartimaeus  still  go  blind; 

The  healing  hem  shall  ne'er  again 
Be  touch'd  by  suffering  humankind. 

Yet  all  the  while  I  see  them  rest, 
The  poor  and  outcast,  on  His  breast. 
1046 


RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE 

No  more  unto  the  stubborn  heart 

With  gentle  knocking  shall  He  plead, 

No  more  the  mystic  pity  start, 

For  Christ  twice  dead  is  dead  indeed. 

So  in  the  street  I  hear  men  say, 
Yet  Christ  is  with  me  all  the  day. 


LAURENCE  BINYON 
870.  Invocation  to  Touth 

b.  181 

/^^OME  then,   as  ever,   like  the  wind  at  morning! 
^"^     Joyous,  O  Youth,   in  the  aged  world  renew 
Freshness  to  feel  the  eternities  around  it, 

Rain,   stars  and  clouds,  light  and  the  sacred  dew. 
The  strong  sun  shines  above  thee : 
That  strength,   that  radiance  bring  ! 
If  Winter  come  to  Winter, 
When  shall  men  hope  for  Spring  ? 


871.  0  World,  be  Nobler 

O   WORLD,   be  nobler,  for  her  sake! 
If  she  but  knew  thee  what  thou  art, 
What  wrongs  are  borne,  what  deeds  are  done 
In  thee,  beneath  thy  daily  sun, 

Know'st  thou  not  that  her  tender  heart 
For  pain  and  very  shame  would  break? 
O  World,  be  nobler,  for  her  sake! 


'A.  E.' 
872.  By  the  Margin  of  the  Great  T)eep 

WHEN  the  breath  of  twilight  blows  to  flame  the  misty 
skies, 

All  its  vaporous  sapphire,  violet  glow  and  silver  gleam, 
With  their  magic  flood  me  through  the  gateway  of  the  eyes ; 
I  am  one  with  the  twilight's  dream. 

When  the  trees  and  skies  and  fields  are  one  in  dusky  mood, 
Every  heart  of  man  is  rapt  within  the  mother's  breast : 
Full  of  peace  and  sleep  and  dreams  in  the  vasty  quietude, 
I  am  one  with  their  hearts  at  rest. 

From  our  immemorial  joys  of  hearth  and  home  and  love 
Stray'd  away  along  the  margin  of  the  unknown  tide, 
All  its  reach  of  soundless  calm  can  thrill  me  far  above 
Word  or  touch  from  the  lips  beside. 

Aye,  and  deep  and  deep  and  deeper  let  me  drink  and  draw 
From  the  olden  fountain  more  than  light  or  peace  or  dream, 
Such  primaeval  being  as  o'erfills  the  heart  with  awe, 
Growing  one  with  its  silent  stream. 


873.  The  Great  Breath 

ITS  edges  foam'd  with  amethyst  and  rose, 
*•      Withers  once  more  the  old  blue  flower  of  day : 
There  where  the  ether  like  a  diamond  glows, 
Its  petals  fade  away. 

A  shadowy  tumult  stirs  the  dusky  air; 
Sparkle  the  delicate  dews,  the  distant  snows; 
The  great  deep  thrills — for  through  it  everywhere 
The  breath  of  Beauty  blows. 


I   saw  how  all  the  trembling  ages  past, 
Moulded  to  her  by  deep  and  deeper  breath, 
Near'd  to  the  hour  when  Beauty  breathes  her  last 
And  knows  herself  in  death. 


T.  STURGE   MOORE 

874.  A  T)uet 

1C  LOWERS  nodding  gaily,  scent  in  air, 
Flowers  posied,  flowers  for  the  hair, 

Sleepy  flowers,   flowers  bold  to  stare ' 

'  O  pick  me  some  ! 

'  Shells  with  lip,  or  tooth,  or  bleeding  gum, 
Tell-tale  shells,   and  shells  that  whisper  Come, 
Shells  that  stammer,  blush,  and  yet  are  dumb- 
'O  let  me  hear.' 


*  Eyes  so  black  they  draw  one  trembling  near, 
Brown  eyes,   caverns  flooded  with  a  tear, 

Cloudless  eyes,  blue  eyes  so  windy  clear ' 

'  O  look  at  me  !  ' 

'  Kisses  sadly  blown  across  the  sea, 
Darkling  kisses,   kisses  fair  and  free, 

Bob-a-cherry  kisses  'neath  a  tree ' 

'  O  give  me  one  ! ' 

Thus  sang  a  king  and  queen  in  Babylon. 


1049 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON 

87?.  The  Toppy 

CUMMER  set  lip  to  earth's  bosom  bare, 
^     And  left  the  flush'd  print  in  a  poppy  there; 
Like  a  yawn  of  fire  from  the  grass  it  came, 
And  the  fanning  wind  pufPd  it  to  flapping  flame. 

With  burnt  mouth  red  like  a  lion's  it  drank 
The  blood  of  the  sun  as  he  slaughter'd  sank, 
And  dipp'd  its  cup  in  the  purpurate  shine 
When  the  eastern  conduits  ran  with  wine. 

Till  it  grew  lethargied  with  fierce  bliss, 
And  hot  as  a  swinked  gipsy  is, 
And  drowsed  in  sleepy  savageries, 
With  mouth  wide  a-pout  for  a  sultry  kiss. 

A  child  and  man  paced  side  by  side, 
Treading  the  skirts  of  eventide ; 
But  between  the  clasp  of  his  hand  and  hers 
Lay,  felt  not,  twenty  wither'd  years. 

She  turn'd,  with  the  rout  of  her  dusk  South  hair, 
And  saw  the  sleeping  gipsy  there  ; 
And  snatch'd  and  snapp'd  it  in  swift  child's  whim, 
With — 'Keep  it,  long  as  you  live!' — to  him. 

And  his  smile,  as  nymphs  from  their  laving  meres, 
Trembled  up  from  a  bath  of  tears ; 
And  joy,  like  a  mew  sea-rock'd  apart, 
Toss'd  on  the  wave  of  his  troubled  heart. 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON 

For  he  saw  what  she  did  not  see, 
That— as  kindled  by  its  own  fervency— 
The  verge  shrivell'd  inward  smoulderingly : 

And  suddenly  'twixt  his  hand  and  hers 

He  knew  the  twenty  wither'd  years 

No  flower,   but  twenty  shrivell'd  years. 

'Was  never  such  thing  until  this  hour,' 
Low  to  his  heart  he  said;    'the  flower 
Of  sleep  brings  wakening  to  me, 
And  of  oblivion  memory.' 

'Was  never  this  thing  to  me,'  he  said, 
'Though  with  bruised  poppies  my  feet  are  red! 
And  again  to  his  own  heart  very  low  : 
'O   child!    I  love,   for  I  love  and  know; 

'But  you,   who  love  nor  know  at  all 
The  diverse  chambers  in   Love's  guest-hall, 
Where  some  rise  early,   few  sit  long  : 
In  how  differing  accents  hear  the  throng 
His  great  Pentecostal  tongue ; 

'  Who  know  not  love  from  amity, 

Nor  my  reported  self  from  me ; 

A  fair  fit  gift  is  this,   meseems, 

You  give — this  withering  flower  of  dreams, 

*O  frankly  fickle,   and  fickly  true, 
Do  you  know  what  the  days  will  do  to  you  ? 
To  your  Love  and  you  what  the  days  will  do. 
O  frankly  fickle,  and  fickly  true? 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON 

'  You  have  loved  me,   Fair,  three  lives — or  days : 
'Twill  pass  with  the  passing  of  my  face. 
But  where  /  go,  your  face  goes  too, 
To  watch  lest  I  play  false  to  you. 

'  I  am  but,  my  sweet,   your  foster-lover, 
Knowing  well  when  certain  years  are  over 
You  vanish  from  me  to  another  ; 
Yet  I  know,  and  love,   like  the  foster-mother. 

'  So,   frankly  fickle,  and  fickly  true ! 
For  my  brief  life-while  I  take  from  you 
This  token,  fair  and  fit,  meseems, 
For  me — this  withering  flower  of  dreams.' 

The  sleep-flower  sways  in  the  wheat  its  head. 
Heavy  with  dreams,  as  that  with  bread : 
The  goodly  grain  and  the  sun-flush'd  sleeper 
The  reaper  reaps,   and  Time  the  reaper. 

I  hang  'mid  men  my  needless  head, 

And  my  fruit  is  dreams,  as  theirs  is  bread : 

The  goodly  men  and  the  sun-hazed  sleeper 

Time  shall  reap,  but  after  the  reaper 

The  world  shall  glean  of  me,  me  the  sleeper  ! 

Love !    love  !    your  flower  of  wither 'd  dream 
In  leaved  rhyme  lies  safe,   I  deem, 
Shelter'd  and  shut  in  a  nook  of  rhyme, 
From  the  reaper  man,   and  his  reaper  Time. 

Love  !    /  fall  into  the  claws  of  Time : 
But  lasts  within  a  leaved  rhyme 
All  that  the  world  of  me  esteems — 
My  wither'd  dreams,  my  wither'd  dreams. 


ANONYMOUS 
876.  Non  Nobis 

XTOT  unto  us,   O  Lord, 

*•  ^       Not  unto  us  the  rapture  of  the  day, 

The  peace  of  night,  or  love's  divine  surprise, 

High  heart,  high  speech,  high  deeds  'mid  honouring  eyes 

For  at  Thy  word 

All  these  are  taken  away. 

Not  unto  us,   O  Lord : 

To  us  thou  givest  the  scorn,  the  scourge,  the  scar, 

The  ache  of  life,  the  loneliness  of  death, 

The  insufferable  sufficiency  of  breath ; 

And  with  Thy  sword 

Thou  piercest  very  far. 

Not  unto  us,   O  Lord : 

Nay,   Lord,  but  unto  her  be  all  things  given — 

My  light  and  life  and  earth  and  sky  be  blasted — 

But  let  not  all  that  wealth  of  love  be  wasted: 

Let  Hell  afford 

The  pavement  of  her  Heaven! 


KATHARINE  TYNAN  HINKSON 

877.  Sheep  and  Lambs 

A.L  in  the  April  morning, 
April  airs  were  abroad; 
The  sheep  with  their  little  lamb? 
Pass'd  me  by  on  the  road. 

1053 


KATHARINE  TYNAN  HINKSON 

The  sheep  with  their  little  lambs 
Pass'd  me  by  on  the  road  ; 

All  in  an  April  evening 

I  thought  on  the  Lamb  of  God. 

The  lambs  were  weary,  and  crying 

With  a  weak  human  cry, 
I  thought  on  the  Lamb  of  God 

Going  meekly  to  die. 

Up  in  the  blue,  blue  mountains 
Dewy  pastures  are  sweet : 

Rest  for  the  little  bodies, 
Rest  for  the  little  feet. 

Rest  for  the  Lamb  of  God 

Up  on  the  hill-top  green, 
Only  a  cross  of  shame 

Two  stark  crosses  between. 

All  in  the  April  evening, 

April  airs  were  abroad  ; 
I  saw  the  sheep  with  their  lambs, 

And  thought  on  the  Lamb  of  God 


FRANCES  BANNERMAN 

87  8.  An  Upper  Chamber 

I   CAME  into  the  City  and  none  knew  me; 
None  came  forth,  none  shouted   '  He  is  here  i 
Not  a  hand  with  laurel  would  bestrew  me, 
All  the  way  by  which  I  drew  anear — 
Night  my  banner,  and  my  herald  Fear. 
•054 


FRANCES  BANNERMAN 

But  I  knew  where  one  so  long  had  waited 
In  the  low  room  at  the  stairway's  height, 

Trembling  lest  my  foot  should  be  belated, 
Singing,   sighing  for  the  long  hours'  flight 
Towards  the  moment  of  our  dear  delight. 

I  came  into  the  City  when  you  hail'd  me 
Saviour,  and  again  your  chosen   Lord :  — 

Not  one  guessing  what  it  was  that  fail'd  me, 
While  along  the  way  as  they  adored 
Thousands,   thousands,   shouted  in  accord. 

But  through  all  the  joy  I  knew — I  only — 

How  the  hostel  of  my  heart  lay  bare  and  cold, 

Silent  of  its  music,  and  how  lonely  ! 

Never,   though  you  crown  me  with  your  gold, 
Shall  I  find  that  little  chamber  as  of  old  ! 

ALICE  MEYNELL 
879.  Renouncement 

T    MUST  not  think  of  thee ;    and,  tired  yet  strong, 
A      I  shun  the  love  that  lurks  in  all  delight — 

The  love  of  thee — and  in  the  blue  heaven's  height, 
And  in  the  dearest  passage  of  a  song. 
Oh,  just  beyond  the  sweetest  thoughts  that  throng 

This  breast,  the  thought  of  thee  waits  hidden  yet  bright ; 

But  it  must  never,   never  come  in  sight ; 
I  must  stop  short  of  thee  the  whole  day  long. 
But  when  sleep  comes  to  close  each  difficult  day, 

When  night  gives  pause  to  the  long  watch  I  keep, 
And  all  my  bonds  I  needs  must  loose  apart, 
Must  doff  my  will  as  raiment  laid  away, — 

With  the  first  dream  that  comes  with  the  first  sleep 
I  run,   I  run,  I  am  gather'd  to  thy  heart. 


ALICE  MEYNELL 

880.         The  Lady  of  the  Lambs 

CHE  walks — the  lady  of  my  delight — 

^     A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 

Her  flocks  are  thoughts.      She  keeps  them  white. 

She  guards  them  from  the  steep. 
She  feeds  them  on  the  fragrant  height, 

And  folds  them  in  for  sleep. 

She  roams  maternal  hills  and  bright, 

Dark  valleys  safe  and  deep. 
Her  dreams  are  innocent  at  night; 

The  chastest  stars  may  peep. 
She  walks — the  lady  of  my  delight — 

A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 

She  holds  her  little  thoughts  in  sight, 

Though  gay  they  run  and  leap. 
She  is  so  circumspect  and  right; 

She  has  her  soul  to  keep. 
She  walks — the  lady  of  my  delight — 

A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 


DORA  SIGERSON 
88l.  Ireland 

HTWAS  the  dream  of  a  God, 

*•       And  the  mould  of  His  hand, 
That  you  shook  'neath  His  stroke, 
That  you  trembled  and  broke 
To  this  beautiful  land. 

Here  He  loosed  from  His  hold 
A  brown  tumult  of  wings, 


DORA  SIGERSON 

Till  the  wind  on  the  sea 
Bore  the  strange  melody 
Of  an  island  that  sings. 

He  made  you  all  fair, 

You  in  purple  and  gold, 
You  in  silver  and  green, 
Till  no  eye  that  has  seen 

Without  love  can  behold. 

I  have  left  you  behind 

In  the  path  of  the  past, 
With  the  white  breath  of  flowers. 
With  the  best  of  God's  hours, 

I  have  left  you  at  last. 

MARGARET  L.  WOODS 
882.  Genius  Loci 

TDEACE,  Shepherd,  peace!     What  boots  it  singing  or 
Since  long  ago  grace-giving  Phoebus  died. 

And  all  the  train  that  loved  the  stream-blight  side 
Of  the  poetic  mount  with  him  are  gone 
Beyond  the  shores  of  Styx  and  Acheron, 

In  unexplored  realms  of  night  to  hide. 

The  clouds  that  strew  their  shadows  far  and  wide 
Are  all  of  Heaven  that  visits  Helicon. 
Yet  here,   where  never  muse  or  god  did  haunt, 

Still  may  some  nameless  power  of  Nature  stray, 
Pleased  with  the  reedy  stream's  continual  chant 

And  purple  pomp  of  these  broad  fields  in  May. 
The  shepherds   meet  him  where  he  herds  the  kine, 
And  careless  pass  him  by  whose  is  the  gift  divine. 
M  m  1057 


ANONYMOUS 
88}.        fDominus  Illuminatio  Me* 

TN  the  hour  of  death,  after  this  life's  whim, 

*•      When  the  heart  beats  low,  and  the  eyes  grow  dim, 

And  pain  has  exhausted  every  limb — 

The  lover  of  the  Lord  shall  trust  in  Him. 

When  the  will  has  forgotten  the  lifelong  aim, 
And  the  mind  can  only  disgrace  its  fame, 
And  a  man  is  uncertain  of  his  own  name — 
The  power  of  the  Lord  shall  fill  this  frame. 

When  the  last  sigh  is  heaved,  and  the  last  tear  sheJ, 
And  the  coffin  is  waiting  beside  the  bed, 
And  the  widow  and  child  forsake  the  dead — 
The  angel  of  the  Lord  shall  lift  this  head. 

For  even  the  purest  delight  may  pall, 
And  power  must  fail,  and  the  pride  must  fall, 
And  the  love  of  the  dearest  friends  grow  smaJI — 
But  the  glory  of  the  Lord  is  all  in  all. 


INDEX   OF   AUTHORS 


Addison,  Joseph,  433. 
'A.  £.,'872,873. 
Ainslie,  Hew,  619. 
Akenside,  Mark,  461-463. 
Alford,  Henry,  711. 
Allingham,  William,  769. 
Anonymous,  1-7,  22-29,  5°~72> 

367-393,  876,  883. 
Arnold,  Matthew,  747-754. 
Ashe,  Thomas,  805,  8c6. 
Ayton,  Sir  Robert,  182,  183. 

Baillie,  Joanna,  510. 
Baillie,  Lady  Grisel,  430. 
Bannerman,  Frances,  878. 
Barbauld,  Anna  Laetitia,  474. 
Barbour,  John,  9. 
Barnefield,  Richard,  203. 
Barnes,  William,  658,  659. 
Beattie,  James,  472. 
Beaumont,  Francis,  234. 
Beaumont,  Sir  John,  223. 
Beddoes,  Thomas  Lovell,  666- 

668. 
Beeching,    Henry  Charles,   855 

856. 

Behn,  Aphra,  411,  412. 
Benson,      Arthur     Christopher, 

859. 

Binyon,  Laurence,  870,  871. 
Blake,  William,  483-492. 
Blunt,  Wilfrid  Scawen,  816-823. 
Bowles,  William  Lisle,  509. 


Boyd,  Mark  Alexander,  114. 
Breton,  Nicholas,  73,  74  (?). 
Bridges,  Robert,  832-840. 
Brome,  Alexander,  354. 
Brooke,  Lord,  96. 
Broome,  William,  446,  447. 
Bronte,  Emily,  735-738. 
Brown,  Thomas   Edward,   790- 

793- 
Browne,  William,  of  Tavistock, 

240-246. 
Browning,     Elizabeth      Barrett, 

678-687. 

Browning,  Robert,  715-730. 
Buckinghamshire,  Duke  of,  4 1 7, 

418. 

Bunyan,  John,  366. 
Burns,  Robert,  493-506. 
Byron,  Lord,  597-601. 

Callanan,  Jeremiah  Joseph,  638. 
Campbell,  Thomas,  580,  581. 
Campion,  Thomas,  168-176. 
Carew,  Thomas,  289-295. 
Carey,  Henry,  444,  445. 
Carman,  Bliss,  857. 
Cartwright,  William,  330-333. 
Chapman,  George,  107. 
Chatterton,  Thomas,  479. 
Chaucer,  Geoffrey,  10-12. 
Clare,  John,  621. 
Clough,  Arthur  Hugh,  741. 
Coleridge,  Hartley,  643-646. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor,  549- 

555; 

Coleridge,  Sara,  661,  662. 
Collins,  William,  457-460. 
Congreve,  William,  431,  432. 
Constable,  Henry,  1 10. 
Cory,  William  (Johnson),  758, 

759- 

Cotton,  Charles,  396. 
Cowley,  Abraham,  349-353. 
Cowper,  William,  470,  471. 
Crabbe,  George,  480-482. 
Crashaw,  Richard,  336-342. 
Cunningham,  Allan,  589-591. 
Cunninghame-Graham,    Robert, 

of  Gartmore,  469. 
Cutts,  Lord,  421. 

Daniel,  Samuel,  111-113. 
Darley,  George,  640-642. 
Davenant,  Sir  William,  301-303. 
Davidson,  John,  850,  851. 
Davies,  Sir  John,  181. 
Davison,  F.  or  W.  (?),  64. 
Dekker,  Thomas,  204. 
De  Vere,  Aubrey,  732,  733. 
De  Vere,  Sir  Aubrey,  602. 
Dobell,  Sydney,  765-768. 
Dobson,  Austin,  824-826. 
Donne,  John,  195-202. 
Dorset,  Earl  of,  408. 
Drayton,  Michael,  116-120. 
Drummond,  W'illiam,  of  Haw- 

thornden,  224-232. 
Dryden,  John,  398-402. 
Dufferin,  Lady,  691. 
Dunbar,  William,  18-21. 
D'Urfey,  Thomas,  395. 

Edwardes,  Richard,  46. 
Elliot,  Ebenezer,  587,  588. 
Elliot,  Jane,  466. 
Emerson,  Ralph  \Valdo,669-67  2 . 
Etherege,  Sir  George,  404,  405. 
1060 


Fanshawe,  Sir  Richard,  329. 
Ferguson,  Sir  Samuel,  712-714. 
FitzGerald,  Edward,  697,  698. 
Flatman,  Thomas,  407. 
Fletcher,  Giles,  233. 
Fletcher,     John,     141-143    (?), 

207-217. 

Fletcher,  Phineas,  222. 
Ford,  John,  235. 
Fox,  George,  734. 

Gascoigne,  George,  47. 
Gay,  John,  439. 
Goldsmith,  Oliver,  467,  468. 
Gosse,  Edmund,  845. 
Gray,  Thomas,  453-456. 
Greene,  Robert,  103-105. 
Greville,  Fanny,  475. 
Griffin,  Gerald,  663. 
Grimald,  Nicholas,  42. 

Habington,  William,  297,  298. 
Harte,  Bret,  813. 
Hawes,  Stephen,  32,  33. 
Hawker,  Robert   Stephen,    674, 

675- 

Hemans,  Felicia  Dorothea,  622. 
Henley,    William   Ernest,   842- 

844. 

Henryson,  Robert,  16,  17. 
Herbert,  George,  281-286. 
Herrick,  Robert,  247-275. 
Heywood,  John  (?),  53. 
Heywood,  Thomas,  205,  206. 
Hinkson,  Katharine  Tynan,  877. 
Hoccleve,  Thomas,  13. 
Hood,  Thomas,  647-654. 
Hogg,  James,  513,  514. 
Home,  Richard  Henry,  673. 
Houghton,  Lord,  710. 
Howells,  William  Dean,  812. 
Hume,  Alexander,  106. 
Hunt,  Leigh,  592. 
Hyde,  Douglas,  858. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Jago,  Richard,  452. 
James  I  (King  of  Scotland),  15. 
Johnson,  Samuel,  450,  451. 

Meredith,  George,  772-776. 
Meynell,  Alice,  879,  880. 
Milton,  John,  307-324. 

Jones,  Ebenezer,  745. 

Montgomerie,  Alexander,  48. 

Jones,  Sir  W7illiam,  478. 
Jonson,  Ben,  184-194. 

Montrose,  Marquis  of,  334. 
Moore,  Thomas,  582-585. 

Jordan,  Thomas,  335. 

Moore,  T.  Sturge,  874. 

Morris,  William,  800-802. 

Keats,  John,  623-637. 

Munday,  Anthony,  87. 

Keble,  John,  620. 

Kendall,  Henry  Clarence,  827. 
King,    Henry   (Bishop   of  Chi- 
chester),  278-280. 
Kingsley,  Charles,  739,  740. 
Kipling,  Rudyard,  865-867. 

Nairne,  Lady  Carolina,  512. 
Nashe,  Thomas,  166,  167. 
Newbolt,  Henry,  860. 
Noel,  Roden  Berkeley  Wriothes- 
ley,  803,  804. 

Norton,       Caroline       Elizabeth 

Lamb,  Charles,  577-579. 

Sarah,  692. 

Lamb,  Mary,  511. 

Landor,  Walter  Savage,  557-576. 
Lang,  Andrew,  841. 
Le  Gallienne,  Richard,  868,  869. 
Lindsay,  Lady  Anne,  477. 
Locker-  Lampson,  Frederick,  746. 

Oldham,  John,  420 
Oldys,  William,  438. 
O'Reilly,  John  Boyle,  831. 
O'Shaughnessy,  Arthur  William 

Lodge,  Thomas,  97-100. 
Logan,  John,  476. 

Edgar,  828-830. 
Otway,  Thomas,  419. 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth, 

689. 
Lovelace,  Richard,  343-348. 
Lydgate,  John,  14. 
Lyly,  John,  85,  86. 
Lyttelton,  Lord,  449. 
Lytton,  Earl  of,  794,  795. 

Pagan,  Isobel,  473. 
Parker,  Gilbert,  861. 
Parnell,  Thomas,  436. 
Patmore,  Coventry,  760-764. 
Peacock,  Thomas  Love,  593-595. 
Peele,  George,  101,  102. 

Philips,    Katherine    ('  Orinda'), 

Macaulay,  Lord,  657. 

397- 

MacDonald,  George,  770. 

Philpot,  William,  757. 

Mahony,  Francis,  677. 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  694-696. 

Mangan,  James  Clarence,  664, 
665. 

Pope,  Alexander,  440-442. 
Praed,    Winthrop     Mackworth, 

Mannyng,  Robert,  of  Brunne,  8. 

660. 

Marlowe,  Christopher,  121. 

Prior,  Matthew,  422-428. 

Marvell,  Andrew,  355-361. 

Mayne,  Jasper,  296. 
Melcombe,  Lord,  443. 

Quarles,  Francis,  276,  277. 

1061 

INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Raleigh,  Sir  Walter,  75-78,  122. 
Ramsay,  Allan,  437. 
Randolph,  Thomas,  299,  300. 
Rands,    William    Brighty,    755, 

75<5- 

Reynolds,  John,  177. 
Rochester,  Earl  of,  413-416. 
Rolleston,  T.  W.,  849. 
Rossetti,     Christina     Georgina, 

779-789. 

Rossetti,  Dante  Gabriel,  771 
Rowe,  Henry,  507,  508. 
Rowlands,  Richard,  165. 
Ruskin,  John,  744. 


Scott,  Alexander,  43,  44. 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  542-548. 
Scott,  William  Bell,  731. 
Sedley,  Sir  Charles,  409,  410. 
Shakespeare,   William,    56    (•), 

123-164. 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe.  605-618. 
Shirley,  James,  287,  288. 
Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  88-95. 
Sigcrson,  Dora,  88 1. 
Skelton,  John,  30,  31. 
Smart,  Christopher,  465. 
Smith,  Alexander,  777,  778. 
Smollett,  Tobias  George,  464. 
Southey,  Caroline,  596. 
Southey,  Robert,  556. 
Southwell,  Robert,  108,  109. 
Spenser,  Edmund,  79—84. 
Stanley,  Thomas,  394. 
Stevenson,  Robert   Louis,   846- 

848. 
Still,  John  (Bishop  of  Bath  and 

Wells),  49. 
Stirling,  Earl  of,  221. 
Suckling,  Sir  John,  325-328. 
Surrey,  Earl  of,  39-41. 


Swinburne,    Algernon    Charles, 

808-811. 
Sylvester,  Joshua,  1 1 5. 


Taylor,  Sir  Henry,  656. 
Tennyson,  Frederick,  688. 
Tennyson,  Lord,  699-709. 
Thorn,  William,  655. 
Thompson,  Francis,  875. 
Thomson,  James,  448. 
Thomson,  James,  796-799. 
Thurlow,  Lord,  586. 
Todhunter,  John,  814,  815. 
Traherne,  Thomas,  406. 
Turner,  Charles  Tennyson,  693. 


Vaughan,  Henry,  362-365. 


Wade,  Thomas,  676. 
Walker,  William  Sidney,  639. 
Waller,  Edmund,  304-306. 
Walsh,  William,  429. 
Watson,  William,  853-854. 
Watts,  Isaac,  434,  435. 
Watts-Dunton,  Theodore,  807. 
Webbe,  Charles,  403. 
Webster,  John,  218-220. 
Wever,  Robert,  45. 
Whitman,  Walt,  742,  743. 
Whittier,  John  Greenleaf,  690. 
Wither,  George,  236-239. 
Wolfe,  Charles,  603,  604. 
Woods,  Margaret  L.,  882. 
Wordsworth,  William,  515-541. 
Wotton,  Sir  Henry,  178-180. 
Wyatt,  Sir  Thomas,  34-38. 


Yeats,  William  Butler,  862-864. 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


No. 

A  Book  of  Verses  underneath  the  Bough         ....     698 
A  child 's  a  plaything  for  an  hour  .         .         .         ,         .         .511 

A !   Fredome  is  a  noble  thing  ! 9 

A  garden  is  a  lovesome  thing,  God  wot !  793 

A  late  lark  twitters  from  the  quiet  skies 843 

A  plenteous  place  is  Ireland  for  hospitable  cheer     .         .         .714 
A  rose,  as  fair  as  ever  saw  the  North       .....     242 

A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal  .....  .519 

A  star  is  gone  !  a  star  is  gone  !....„.     642 

A  sunny  shaft  did  I  behold     .......     555 

A  sweet  disorder  in  the  dress 258 

A  thousand  martyrs  I  have  made 412 

A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid 546 

Above  yon  sombre  swell  of  land 673 

Absence,  hear  thou  my  protestation         .         ,         „         .         .197 
Absent  from  thee,  I  languish  still   .         .         .        .         ,         .413 

Accept,  thou  shrine  of  my  dead  saint       .  280 

Adieu,  farewell  earth's  bliss !  .......      167 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever      ...,.,     499 
Ah,  Chloris !  that  I  now  could  sit  .         .         .        ,         .         .     409 
Ah,  how  sweet  it  is  to  love  !..„.„*„     400 
Ah!  were  she  pitiful  as  she  is  fair  .         .         ,         .         ,         ,104 
Ah,  what  avails  the  sceptred  race    ......     558 

Airly  Beacon,  Airly  Beacon    ........     739 

Alexis,  here  she  stay'd  ;  among  these  pines     .  228 

All  are  not  taken ;  there  are  left  behind  .....     680 

All  holy  influences  dwell  within      ..         =         ,..     602 
All  in  the  April  morning         .         .         .         .         «         .         .877 

All  is  best,  though  we  oft  doubt  .     324 

All  my  past  life  is  mine  no  more     ....  .     414 

All  Nature  seems  at  work.     Slugs  leave  their  lair  .        .        .     554 

1063 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

No. 

All 's  over,  then :  does  truth  sound  bitter         ....  726 

All  the  flowers  of  the  spring 220 

AH  the  words  that  I  utter 862 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights     .         .         .         .  551 

All  under  the  leaves  and  the  leaves  of  life        ....  382 

Alias  1  my  worthy  maister  honorable 13 

Amarantha  sweet  and  fair 346 

An  ancient  chestnut's  blossoms  threw 573 

And,  like  a  dying  lady  lean  and  pale 609 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ? 35 

Angel,  king  of  streaming  morn 507 

Angel  spirits  of  sleep 833 

April,  April .852 

Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slumbers  ?        .         .         .  204 

As  doctors  give  physic  by  way  of  prevention  ....  428 

As  I  in  hoary  winter's  night 109 

As  I  was  walking  all  alane 380 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day 203 

As  one  that  for  a  weary  space  has  lain 84 1 

As  those  we  love  decay,  we  die  in  part    .         .                  .  448 

As  we  rush,  as  we  rush  in  the  Train 796 

As  ye  came  from  the  holy  land 26 

Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows 289 

Ask  me  why  I  send  you  here  .         ......  254 

Ask  not  the  cause  why  sullen  Spring       .....  402 

At  her  fair  hands  how  have  I  grace  entreated  ....  64 

At  the  last,  tenderly 742 

At  the  mid  hour  of  night,  when  stars  are  weeping,  I  fly  .         .  585 

Awake,  jEolian  lyre,  awake 455 

Away !    Away ! 462 

Away,  delights  !  go  seek  some  other  dwelling          .         .         .an 
Away !  the  moor  is  dark  beneath  the  moon     .         .         .         .617 


Bacchus  must  now  his  power  resign 445 

Palow,  my  babe,  lie  still  and  sleep !.....  28 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth 630 

Be  it  right  or  wrong,  these  men  among 25 

Beating  Heart !  we  come  again       ......  746 

Beautiful  must  be  the  mountains  whence  ye  come    .         .         .  834 

Beauty  clear  and  fair      ........  215 

Beauty  sat  bathing  by  a  spring 87 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field 528 

Being  your  slave,  what  should  I  do  but  tend  .         .         .         ^151 
1064 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

No. 

Best  and  brightest,  come  away 606 

Bid  me  to  live,  and  I  will  live         ....  266 

Blest  pair  of  Sirens,  pledges  of  Heav'ns  joy     ....     309 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind 136 

Blown  in  the  morning,  thou  shalt  fade  ere  noon       .         .         .     329 
Bonnie  Kilmeny  gaed  up  the  glen  .         .         .         .  -514 

Brave  flowers — that  I  could  gallant  it  like  you        .         .         .     278 
Breathes  there  the  man  with  soul  so  dead        .         .  .     547 

Bright  Star,  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art        .         .         .637 
Bring  me  wine,  but  wine  which  never  grew     .         .         .         .     67 1 

Busy,  curious,  thirsty  fly ! 438 

By  feathers  green,  across  Casbeen   ....  ,     859 

Bytuene  Mershe  ant  Aveiil     .....  „        a 


Ca'  the  yowes  to  the  knowes 473, 506 

Call  for  the  robin-redbreast  and  the  wren        ....  218 

Calm  on  the  bosom  of  thy  God  ! 622 

Calme  was  the  day,  and  through  the  trembling  ayre        .         .  8r 

Came,  on  a  Sabbath  noon,  my  sweet      .....  805 

Charm  me  asleep,  and  melt  me  so  .         .         .         .         .         ,  263 

Cherry-ripe,  ripe,  ripe,  I  cry   ...                 ...  256 

Chloe  's  a  Nymph  in  flowery  groves        .....  395 

Christmas  knows  a  merry,  merry  place   .....  807 

Clerk  Sannders  and  may  Margaret 371 

Cold  in  the  earth — and  the  deep  snow  piled  above  thee  .         .  736 

Come  away,  come  away,  death 134 

Come,  dear  children,  let  us  away 747 

Come  down,  O  maid,  from  yonder  mountain  height        .         .  706 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud 708 

Come,  let  us  now  resolve  at  last 4J7 

Come  little  babe,  come  silly  soul    .                          ...  74 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love J2i 

Come  not  in  terrors  clad,  to  claim 596 

Come,  Sleep,  and  with  thy  sweet  deceiving     ....  207 

Come,  Sleep ;  O  Sleep !  the  certain  knot  of  peace  ...  94 

Come,  spur  away 3°o 

Come  then,  as  ever,  like  the  wind  at  morning  I        ...  070 

Come  thou,  who  art  the  wine  and  wit 274 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands I29 

Come,  worthy  Greek  !  Ulysses,  come "a 

Condemn'd  to  Hope's  delusive  mine  .         .         -         -45* 

Corydon,  arise,  my  Cor)  don ! 57 

Count  each  affliction,  whether  light  or  grave  ....  733 

M  m  3  to6s 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

No. 

Crabbed  Age  and  Youth .56 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  play'd -,    .  85 

Cynthia,  to  thy  power  and  thee 208 

Cyriack,  whose  Grandsire  on  the  Royal  Bench        .         .         .  320 

Dark,  deep,  and  cold  the  current  flows    .         .         .        .         .  588 

Dark  to  me  is  the  earth.     Dark  to  me  are  the  heavens    .         .  817 

Daughter  to  that  good  Earl,  once  President     .         .         .         .  317* 

Day,  like  our  souls,  is  fiercely  dark  ......  587 

Dear  Lord,  receive  my  son,  whose  winning  love      .         .         .  223 
Dear  love,  for  nothing  less  than  thee       .         .         .         .         .199 

Death,  be  not  proud,  though  some  have  called  thee        .        .  202 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 703 

'  Do  you  remember  me  ?  or  are  yon  proud  ? '    .         .         .         .  569 

Does  the  road  wind  uphill  all  the  way  ? 783 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes 185 

Drop,  drop,  slow  tears   .                  222 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair        ....  520 

E'en  like  two  little  bank -dividing  brooks         ....  276 

Enough  ;  and  leave  the  rest  to  Fame  ! 361 

Even  such  is  Time,  that  takes  in  trust 78 

Ever  let  the  Fancy  roam         ....                  i         .  631 

Fain  would  I  change  that  note 68 

Fair  Amoret  is  gone  astray      .......  432 

Fair  and  fair,  and  twice  so  fair 101 

Fair  daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 252 

Fair  is  my  Love  and  cruel  as  she's  fair 113 

Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree 253 

Fair  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore 707 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France 119 

False  though  she  be  to  me  and  love 431 

False  world,  good  night !  since  thou  hast  brought   .         .         .190 

Farewell !  thou  art  too  dear  for  my  possessing         .         .         .  153 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun 140 

Fine  knacks  for  ladies  !  cheap,  choice,  brave,  and  new   .         .  58 

First  came  the  primrose 767 

Flowers  nodding  gaily,  scent  in  air 874 

Fly  envious  Time,  till  thou  run  out  thy  race   ....  308 

Fly  hence,  shadows,  that  do  keep 235 

Follow  a  shadow,  it  still  flies  you 187 

Follow  thy  fair  sun,  unhappy  shadow  I 170 

1066 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

Follow  your  saint,  follow  with  accents  sweet !          .         .         .  171 

Foolish  prater,  what  dost  thou 35  r 

For  a  name  unknown '  857 

For  her  gait,  if  she  be  walking 243 

For  knighthood  is  not  in  the  feats  of  warre     ....  32 

Forbear,  bold  youth  ;  all's  heaven  here  ...                  .  397 

Forget  not  yet  the  tried  intent         ......  34 

Fra  bank  to  bank,  fra  wood  to  wood  I  rin       .         .         .         .114 

Fresh  Spring,  the  herald  of  loves  mighty  king         ...  79 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony           ....  399 

From  low  to  high  doth  dissolution  climb        ....  539 

From  the  forests  and  highlands       ......  605 

From  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring      .         .         .         .157 

From  you,  lanthe,  little  troubles  pass 559 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies 131 

Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may 248 

Get  up,  get  np  for  shame  !     The  blooming  morn     .         .         .  247 

Give  a  man  a  horse  he  can  ride 798 

Give  all  to  love 669 

Give  me  my  scallop-shell  of  quiet 77 

Give  pardon,  blessed  soul,  to  my  bold  cries     .         .         .         .no 

Give  place,  you  ladies,  and  begone  ! 53 

Go  and  catch  a  falling  star      .         .         .         .         .         .         .196 

Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine .......  496 

Go,  for  they  call  you,  Shepherd,  from  the  hill          .         .         .  751 

Go  from  me.     Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand     ....  684 

Go,  lovely  Rose 305 

God  Lyaeus,  ever  young 214 

God  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old 867 

God  who  created  me 855 

Gone  were  but  the  winter  cold 59 l 

Good-morrow  to  the  day  so  fair      .         .         .                  .        .  268 

Great  men  have  been  among  us  ;  hands  that  penn'd         .         .  525 

Had  we  but  world  enough,  and  time 357 

Hail,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  grove ! 476 

Hail  holy  light,  ofspring  of  Heav'n  first-born.         .         .         -  322 

Hail,  sister  springs 337 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 6°8 

Hallow  the  threshold,  crown  the  posts  anew ! .        .         .         •  33a 
Hame,  hame,  hame,  O  hame  fain  wad  I  be      .        .         •         -59° 

Happy  those  early  days,  when  I 36a 

Hark!  ah,  the  Nightingale 75a 

1067 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

No. 

Hark  !  hark  !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings  ....  139 

Hark !     Now  everything  is  still       .         .        .         .        .         .  219 

Hark !  the  mavis'  evening  sang        .         .         .         .         ...  506 

He  first  deceased  ;  she  for  a  little  tried   .         .         ...  180 

He  has  conn'd  the  lesson  now          ......  660 

He  that  is  by  Mooni  now 827 

He  that  is  down  needs  fear  no  fall  .         .         .         .        i  .       .  366 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek      .......  292 

He  who  has  once  been  happy  is  for  aye 818 

Heap  cassia,  sandal-buds  and  stripes 715 

Hear  the  voice  of  the  Bard 488 

Hear,  ye  ladies  that  despise    ....                 .        .  213 

Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  me      .......  694 

Hence,  all  you  vain  delights ai6 

Hence,  heart,  with  her  that  must  depart          ....  43 

Hence  loathed  Melancholy 310 

Hence  vain  deluding  joyes '.--..  3" 

Her  eyes  the  glow-worm  lend  thee 262 

Here  a  little  child  I  stand 271 

Here  a  pretty  baby  lies 273 

Here,  ever  since  you  went  abroad   ......  567 

Here  in  this  sequester'd  close 824 

Here  she  lies,  a  pretty  bud 873 

Hey  nonny  no ! 59 

Hey !  now  the  day  dawis 48 

H Jerusalem,  my  happy  home 61 

High-spirited  friend         ........  191 

Highway,  since  you  my  chief  Parnassus  be  .         .         .92 

His  golden  locks  Time  hath  to  silver  turn'd    ....  102 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 179 

How  like  a  Winter  hath  my  absence  been        ....  156 

How  many  times  do  I  love  thee,  dear? 668 

How  near  me  came  the  hand  of  Death 239 

How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest 458 

How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze 359 

Hush !  my  dear,  lie  still  and  slumber 435 

Hyd,  Absolon,  thy  gilte  tresses  clere n 


I  am  that  which  began 809 

I  am  !  yet  what  I  am  who  cares,  or  knows?    ....     621 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee      .         .         .         .         .         .         .611 

I  ask  no  kind  return  of  love 475 

1  came  into  the  City  and  none  knew  me.         .         .         .         .     878 

1068 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

No 

I  cannot  change  as  others  do  .         .         .         .         .        .         .  415 

I  cannot  eat  but  little  meat 49 

I  dare  not  ask  a  kiss 250 

I  did  but  look  and  love  awhile 419 

I  did  not  choose  thee,  dearest.     It  was  Love  ....  819 

I  do  confess  thou'rt  smooth  and  fair 182 

T  do  not  love  thee ! — no !  I  do  not  love  thee  !           ...  692 
1  dream'd  that,  as  I  wander' d  by  the  way          .         .         .         .616 

I  dug,  beneath  the  cypress  shade     ......  594 

I  feed  a  flame  within,  which  so  torments  me   .         .         .         .401 

I  flung  me  round  him      ........  803 

I  got  me  flowers  to  straw  Thy  way 282 

I  have  a  mistress,  for  perfections  rare      .....  299 

I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions         .         .         .  577 

I  intended  an  Ode 825 

I  know  a  little  garden-close 802 

I  know  a  thing  that 's  most  uncommon 440 

I  know  my  soul  hath  power  to  know  all  things        .          .         .  181 

I  left  thee  last,  a  child  at  heart 678 

I  long  have  had  a  quarrel  set  with  Time         ....  823 

I  loved  a  lass,  a  fair  one          .......  236 

I  loved  him  not ;  and  yet  now  he  is  gone        ....  557 

I  loved  thee  once ;  I'll  love  no  more 183 

I  made  another  garden,  yea    .         ......  829 

I  mind  me  in  the  days  departed       ...                  .  679 

I  must  not  think  of  thee ;  and,  tired  yet  strong        .         .         .  879 

I,  my  dear,  was  born  to-day 425 

1  play'd  with  you  'mid  cowslips  blowing          .         .         .         .593 

I  pray  thee,  leave,  love  me  no  more 116 

I  said— Then,  dearest,  since  'tis  so 7^7 

I  saw  fair  Chloris  walk  alone 393 

I  saw  my  Lady  weep 66 

I  saw  old  Antumn  in  the  misty  morn 647 

I  saw  where  in  the  shroud  did  lurk 579 

I  sent  a  ring— a  little  band 641 

I  sing  of  a  maiden •         •         •         •  23 

I  strove  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my  strife     .         .        .  576 

I  tell  you,  hopeless  grief  is  passionless 681 

I  that  in  heill  was  and  gladness       ......  21 

I  thought  of  Thee,  my  partner  and  my  guide   ....  53° 

I  thought  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung         .         .         .         .682 

I  thought  to  meet  no  more,  so  dreary  seem'd  .         .         .         .620 

I  took  my  heart  in  my  hand    ...                 ...  782 

I  travell'd  among  unknown  men 5J7 

1069 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

No. 

I  wander'd  lonely  as  a  cloud 530 

I  will  arise  and  go  now,  and  go  to  Innisfree     ....  864 

I  will  make  you  brooches  and  toys  for  your  delight          .         .  846 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies 387 

I,  with  whose  colours  Myra  dress'd  her  head    ....  96 

Ichot  a  burde  in  boure  bryht 4 

I'd  a  dream  to-night 658 

I'd  wed  you  without  herds,  without  money  or  rich  array          .  713 

I'm  sittin'  on  the  stile,  Mary 691 

I'm  wearin'  awa',  John 513 

I've  heard  them  lilting  at  our  ewe-milking       ....  466 

If  all  the  world  and  love  were  young       .....  122 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song  .....  459 

If  doughty  deeds  my  lady  please      ......  469 

If  I  had  thought  thou  couldst  have  died 604 

'  If  I  were  dead,  you'd  sometimes  say,  Poor  Child  ! '        .         .  761 

If  rightly  tuneful  bards  decide 461 

If  the  quick  spirits  in  your  eye 290 

If  the  red  slayer  think  he  slays 672 

If  there  were  dreams  to  sell 667 

If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  naught        ....  685 

If  thou  wilt  ease  thine  heart 666 

If  to  be  absent  were  to  be 344 

If  you  go  over  desert  and  mountain 830 

In  a  drear-nighted  December 632 

In  a  harbour  grene  aslepe  whereas  I  lay 45 

In  a  quiet  water'd  land,  a  land  of  roses 849 

In  a  valley  of  this  restles  mind 24 

In  after  days  when  grasses  high 826 

In  Clementina's  artless  mien    .......  568 

In  going  to  my  naked  bed  as  one  that  would  have  slept  .         .  46 

In  Scarlet  town,  where  I  was  born 389 

In  somer  when  the  shawes  be  sheyne aa 

In  the  hall  the  coffin  waits,  and  the  idle  armourer  stands         .  768 

In  the  highlands,  in  the  country  places 847 

In  the  hour  of  death,  after  this  life's  whim       ....  883 

In  the  hour  of  my  distress 375 

In  the  merry  month  of  May 73 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 550 

Into  the  silver  night 845 

Into  the  skies,  one  summer's  day 756 

Is  it  so  small  a  thing 754 

It  fell  about  the  Martinmas 374 

It  fell  in  the  ancient  periods 670 

1070 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

It  fell  on  a  day,  and  a  bonnie  simmer  day  .  .  077 
It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free  .  .  [521 

It  is  an  ancient  Mariner  ...                                            '  r4q 

It  is  not,  Celia,  in  our  power  ...'.'.  40- 

It  is  not  death,  that  sometime  in  a  sigh  .  '  64q 
It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree  ...  '104 
It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  flood  .  .  '526 

It  is  the  miller's  daughter       .         .         .         .         '         .'  ?OI 

It  was  a  dismal  and  a  fearful  night          ....'.  352 

It  was  a  lover  and  his  lass I37 

It  was  a'  for  our  rightfu'  King 505 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago 695 

It  was  not  in  the  Winter 651 

It  was  not  like  your  great  and  gracious  ways  !         .         .         .  762 

It  was  the  Winter  wilde.         .......  307 

Its  edges  foam'd  with  amethyst  and  rose          ....  873 

Jenny  kiss'd  me  when  we  met          ......  592 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John  .         ......  497 

Know,  Celia,  since  thou  art  so  proud 293 

Ladies,  though  to  your  conquering  eyes 404 

Late  at  een,  drinkin'  the  wine  .......  370 

Lawrence  of  vertuous  Father  vertuous  Son       .         .         .         .319 

Lay  a  garland  on  my  herse      .......  209 

Leave  me,  O  Love,  which  reaches!  but  to  dust         •         •         •  95 

Lenten  ys  come  with  love  to  toune 3 

Lestenyt,  lordynges,  both  elde  and  jynge         ....  7 

Let  me  go  forth,  and  share      .......  853 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds         .         .         .         .162 

Let  the  bird  of  loudest  lay 144 

Let  us  drink  and  be  merry,  dance,  joke,  and  rejoice         .         .  335 

Life  !  I  know  not  what  thou  art 474 

Like  the  Idalian  queen 225 

Like  thee  I  once  have  stemm'd  the  sea  of  life          .         ,         .  472 

Like  to  Diana  in  her  summer  weed 103 

Like  to  the  clear  in  highest  sphere 100 

Lo,  quhat  it  is  to  love 44 

London,  thou  art  of  townes  A  per  se                                 .         .  19 

Long-expected  One-and-twenty      ....                 •  45° 

Look  not  thou  on  beauty's  charming      .  544 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

No. 

Lords,  knights,  and  squires,  the  numerous  band       .         .         .  423 

Loud  mockers  in  the  roaring  street ......  869 

Love  bade  me  welcome  ;  yet  my  soul  drew  back      .         .         .  a86 

Love  guards  the  roses  of  thy  lips 99 

Love  in  fantastic  triumph  sate 411 

Love  in  my  bosom  like  a  bee 97 

Love  is  a  sickness  full  of  woes in 

Love  is  enough  :  though  the  World  be  a- waning     .         .         .801 

Love  is  the  blossom  where  there  blows 333 

Love  not  me  for  comely  grace 71 

Love,  thou  art  absolute,  sole  Lord 338 

Love  thy  country,  wish  it  well         ......  443 

Love  wing'd  my  Hopes  and  taught  me  how  to  fly   .         .         .  6a 


Marie  Hamilton 's  to  the  kirk  gane 375 

Mark  where  the  pressing  wind  shoots  javelin-like    .         .         .  775 

Martial,  the  things  that  do  attain 41 

Marvel  of  marvels,  if  I  myself  shall .behold      .         .         .         .785 

Mary  !  I  want  a  lyre  with  other  strings 470 

May  !     Be  thou  never  graced  with  birds  that  sing  .         .         .  245 

May  !  queen  of  blossoms 586 

Me  so  oft  my  fancy  drew 238 

Men  grew  sac  cauld,  maids  sae  unkind 655 

Merry  Margaret 31 

Methought  I  saw  my  late  espoused  Saint         ....  321 

Mild  is  the  parting  year,  and  sweet          .....  565 

Milton!  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour  ....  524 

More  love  or  more  disdain  I  crave  ......  403 

Mortality,  behold  and  fear ! 334 

Most  glorious  Lord  of  Lyfe !  that,  on  this  day         ...  84 

Mother,  I  cannot  mind  my  wheel 564 

Mother  of  Hermes  !  and  still  youthful  Maia  ! .        .         .         .  629 

Much  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold    ....  634 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die 618 

My  blood  so  red 385 

My  Damon  was  the  first  to  wake    ......  480 

My  days  among  the  Dead  are  past ......  556 

My  dear  and  only  Love,  I  pray       ......  334 

My  delight  and  thy  delight 832 

My  faint  spirit  was  sitting  in  the  light 613 

My  grief  on  the  sea 858 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains         .         .         .  624 

My  heart  is  high  above,  my  body  is  full  of  bliss      ...  52 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

No. 

My  heart  is  like  a  singing  bird        ......  780 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 532 

My  little  Son,  who  look'd  from  thoughtful  eyes      .         .         .  763 

My  Love  in  her  attire  doth  show  her  wit         ....  63 

My  love  is  strengthen'd,  though  more  weak  in  seeming    .         .  158 

My  love  o'er  the  water  bends  dreaming  .....  797 

My  lute,  awake !  perform  the  last 38 

My  mother  bore  me  in  the  southern  wild         ....  487 

My  new-cut  ashlar  takes  the  light 865 

My  noble,  lovely,  little  Peggy         ......  427 

My  Peggy  is  a  young  thing    .......  437 

My  Phillis  hath  the  morning  sun     ......  98 

My  silks  and  fine  array 485 

My  soul,  sit  thou  a  patient  looker-on 277 

My  soul,  there  is  a  country 363 

My  thoughts  hold  mortal  strife 230 

My  true  love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his    .         .         .         .88 


Nay  but  you,  who  do  not  love  her 721 

Near  to  the  silver  Trent 118 

Never  seek  to  tell  thy  love 492 

Never  weather-beaten  sail  more  willing  bent  to  shore      .         .176 

New  doth  the  sun  appear 231 

News  from  a  foreign  country  came 406 

No  coward  soul  is  mine 738 

No,  no  I  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist 628 

No  thyng  ys  to  man  so  dere 8 

Nobly,  nobly  Cape  Saint  Vincent  to  the  North-west  died  away  730 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note       ....  603 

Not,  Celia,  that  I  juster  am 410 

'  Not  ours,'  say  some,  '  the  thought  of  death  to  dread      .         .  854 

Not  nnto  us,  O  Lord 876 

Now  sleeps  the  crimson  petal,  now  the  white .         .         .         .705 

Now  the  lusty  spring  is  seen  ; 212 

Now  the  North  wind  ceases 774 

Now  winter  nights  enlarge 1 74 

Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent's  narrow  room  .  533 


O,  Brignall  banks  are  wild  and  fair 543 

O  Captain  !  my  Captain  !  our  fearful  trip  is  done    .         .         -743 

O  Christ  of  God !  whose  life  and  death 690 

O  come,  soft  rest  of  cares !  come,  Night !  .        -        .107 

'073 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

No. 

O  Earth,  lie  heavily  upon  her  eyes 789 

O  fly,  my  Soul !     What  hangs  upon 387 

O  fly  not,  Pleasure,  pleasant-hearted  Pleasure          .         .         .  816 

O  for  some  honest  lover's  ghost 325 

O  for  the  mighty  wakening  that  aroused          ....  676 

O  friend  !  I  know  not  which  way  I  must  look          .         .         .  523 

O  goddess  !  hear  these  tuneless  numbers,  wrung      .         .         .  626 

O  happy  dames  !  that  may  embrace         .....  40 

O  happy  Tithon  !  if  thou  know'st  thy  hap       ....  221 

O  how  much  more  doth  beauty  beauteous  seem       .         .         .  150 

O,  I  hae  come  from  far  away  .......  731 

O  joy  of  creation 813 

O  lusty  May,  with  Flora  queen  ! 51 

O  many  a  day  have  I  made  good  ale  in  the  glen      .         .         .  638 

O  Mary,  at  thy  window  be 493 

O  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home 740 

O  Memory,  thou  fond  deceiver 468 

O  mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming?       ....  133 

O  mortal  folk,  you  may  behold  and  see 33 

O  my  Dark  Rosaleen 664 

O  my  deir  hert,  young  Jesus  sweit  ......  384 

O  my  Luve  's  like  a  red,  red  rose    ......  503 

O  never  say  that  I  was  f.ilse  of  heart 161 

O  perfect  Light,  which  shaid  away 106 

O  ruddier  than  the  cherry  I 439 

O  saw  ye  bonnie  Lesley 500 

O  saw  ye  not  fair  Ines ! 650 

O  sing  unto  my  roundelay 479 

O  sleep,  my  babe,  hear  not  the  rippling  wave         .         .         .  661 

O  soft  embalmer  of  the  still  midnight ! 636 

O  Sorrow ! 623 

O  that  'twere  possible    ........  709 

O  the  sad  day  ! 407 

O  thou,  by  Nature  taught 457 

O  thou  that  swing'st  upon  the  waving  hair      ....  347 

O  thou  undaunted  daughter  of  desires  ! 339 

O  thou  with  dewy  locks,  who  lookest  down    ....  484 

O  Time  !  who  know'st  a  lenient  hand  to  lay   .         .         .         .  509 

O,  to  be  in  England 729 

O  turn  away  those  cruel  eyes 394 

O  waly,  waly,  up  the  bank 388 

O  were  my  Love  yon  lilac  fair         ......  502 

O  western  wind,  when  wilt  thou  blow 72 

O  wha  will  shoe  my  bonny  foot  t 369 

1074 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

No. 

O  what  a  plague  is  love  !         .......  392 

O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms         .....  633 

'  O  which  is  the  last  rose  ?  '     .......  85  1 

O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being        .         .  610 

O  world,  be  nobler,  for  her  sake!    ......  871 

O  world,  in  very  truth  thou  art  too  young        ....  822 

O  yonge  fresshe  folkes,  he  or  she    ......  10 

O,  you  plant  the  pain  in  my  heart  with  your  wistful  eyes         .  814 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw    ......  494 

Of  all  the  flowers  rising  now  .......  757 

Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart     ......  444 

Of  all  the  torments,  all  the  cares     ......  429 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North         .......  581 

Of  Neptune's  empire  let  us  sing      .         .         .         .         .  173 

Of  on  that  is  so  fayr  and  bright       ......  6 

Oft,  in  the  stilly  night    ........  584 

Often  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town          .....  689 

Oh  how  comely  it  is  and  how  reviving    .....  323 

On  a  day—  alack  the  day  !       .......  124 

On  a  starr'd  night  Prince  Lucifer  uprose  .....  776 

On  a  time  the  amorous  Silvy  .......  72 

On  either  side  the  river  lie      .......  700 

On  parent  knees,  a  naked  new-born  child         .         .         .         .478 

On  the  deck  of  Patrick  Lynch's  boat  I  sat  in  woful  plight       .  734 

On  the  Sabbath-day        ........  778 

On  the  wide  level  of  a  mountain's  head  .....  553 

Once  did  she  hold  the  gorgeous  East  in  fee     ....  522 

One  more  Unfortunate     ........  654 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned       .         .         .         .        .         -615 

Only  tell  her  that  I  love          .......  421 

O're  the  smooth  enameld  green        ......  312 

Orpheus  with  his  lute  made  trees    ......  143 

Others  abide  our  question.     Thou  art  free       ....  753 

Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me       ......  842 

Out  upon  it,  I  have  loved        .......  326 

Over  hill,  over  dale         ........  127 

Over  the  mountains         ........  391 

Over  the  sea  our  galleys  went          .         .         .                 .        .  7l6 


Pack,  clouds,  away  !  and  welcome,  day  !         .        .        .        .  205 

Passing  away,  saith  the  World,  passing  away.         .         .        .  784 

Passions  are  liken'd  best  to  floods  and  streams        ...  75 

Past  ruin'd  Ilion  Helen  lives  .......  5$i 

«07S 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

No. 

Peace,  Shepherd,  peace !    What  boots  it  singing  on  T  88a 

Perfect  little  body,  without  fault  or  stain  on  thee     .  837 

Phoebus,  arise ! 324 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild 486 

Poor  soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth  .         .         .  164 

Praise  is  devotion  fit  for  mighty  minds    ...               .  303 

Pray  but  one  prayer  for  me  'twixt  thy  closed  lips     .  800 

Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood  .....  542 

Proud  word  you  never  spoke,  but  you  will  speak     .  562 

Pure  stream,  in  whose  transparent  wave 464 

Put  your  head,  darling,  darling,  darling 712 

Queen  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair 184 

Queen  of  fragrance,  lovely  Rose     ......  446 

Quhen  Flora  had  o'erfret  the  firth   ......  50 

Quoth  tongue  of  neither  maid  nor  wife    .  656 

Remain,  ah  not  in  youth  alone  !                                                 .  566 

Remember  me  when  I  am  gone  away       .  787 

Return,  return  !  all  night  my  lamp  is  burning          .         .         .  766 

'  Rise,'  said  the  Master,  '  come  qnto  the  feast '         .         .         .  711 
Robin  sat  on  gude  green  hill  ....                           .16 

Roll  forth,  my  song,  like  the  rushing  river                .         .         .  665 

Rorate  coeli  desnper !  ao 

Rose-cheek'd  Laura,  come      .         .                                             .  169 
Roses,  their  sharp  spines  being  pone        .         .         .         .         .141 

Round  the  cape  of  a  sudden  came  the  sea                          .  735 

Sabrina  fair 315 

Safe  where  I  cannot  die  yet              786 

Say,  crimson  Rose  and  dainty  Daffodil    .  177 

Say  not  the  struggle  naught  availeth 741 

Says  Tweed  to  Till 383 

Scorn  not  the  Sonnet ;  Critic,  you  have  frown 'd       .         .         .  534 

Seamen  three  !    \Vhat  men  be  ye  ?  .         .         .         „         .         .  595 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness  1          ....  627 

See  how  the  flowers,  as  at  parade 356 

See  the  Chariot  at  hand  here  of  Love       .                                    .  188 

See  where  she  sits  upon  the  grassie  greene       ....  80 

See  with  what  simplicity 358 

See  yon  blithe  child  that  dances  in  our  sight  I          ...  662 

Sense  with  keenest  edge  unused 838 

,076 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

No. 

Seven  weeks  of  sea,  and  twice  seven  days  of  storm  .         .         .821 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  Summer's  day?        ....  145 

Shall  I  strew  on  thee  rose  or  rue  or  laurel       .         .         .         .810 

Shall  I  thus  ever  long,  and  be  no  whit  the  neare?  54 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair      .......  237 

She  beat  the  happy  pavement          ......  345 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways     .         .         .         .         .516 

She  fell  away  in  her  first  ages  spring       .....  83 

She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view 644 

She  knelt  upon  her  brother's  grave 790 

She  pass'd  away  like  morning  dew 645 

She  stood  breast-high  amid  the  corn        .....  652 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 600 

She  walks— the  lady  of  my  delight 880 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 529 

She  was  a  queen  of  noble  Nature's  crowning  ....  643 

She  who  to  Heaven  more  Heaven  doth  annex          .         .         .  333 

She  's  somewhere  in  the  sunlight  strong 868 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot 495 

Shut  not  so  soon  ;  the  dull-eyed  night     .  261 

Since  all  that  I  can  ever  do  for  thee 795 

Since  first  I  saw  your  face  I  resolved  to  honour  and  renown  ye    .  69 

Since  I  noo  mwore  do  zee  your  feace       .....  659 
Since  there 's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and  part       .        .        .117 

Sing  his  praises  that  doth  keep 210 

Sing  lullaby,  as  women  do 47 

Sister,  awake  !  close  not  your  eyes ! 67 

Sleep,  sleep,  beauty  bright 49° 

So  shuts  the  marigold  her  leaves      .         .         .         .         .  •      «  244 

So,  we'll  go  no  more  a-roving          ......  599 

Softly,  O  midnight  Hours ! »  732 

Some  vex  their  souls  with  jealous  pain 4l8 

Sound,  sound  the  clarion,  fill  the  fife 545 

Spring,  the  sweet  Spring,  is  the  year's  pleasant  king         .         .166 

Stand  close  around,  ye  Stygian  set 57 l 

Stay,  O  sweet,  and  do  not  rise  ! Z95 

Steer,  hither  steer  your  winged  pines       .         .         .         -         .241 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God ! S31 

Still  do  the  stars  impart  their  light 33* 

Still  let  my  tyrants  know,  I  am  not  doom'd  to  wear        .         .  737 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest ] 

Strange  fits  of  passion  have  I  known 5J5 

Strew  on  her  roses,  roses 75° 

Sublime — invention  ever  young 4°5 

1077 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

No. 

Sumer  is  icnmen  in i 

Summer  set  lip  to  earth's  bosom  bare 875 

Sure  thou  didst  flourish  once  !  and  many  springs     .         .         .  364 

Surprised  by  joy — impatient  as  the  Wind         ....  537 

Swallow,  my  sister,  O  sister  swallow 8n 

Sweet  are  the  rosy  memories  of  the  lips 794 

Sweet,  be  not  proud  of  those  two  eyes 264 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright 281 

Sweet  Echo,  sweetest  Nymph  that  liv'st  unseen        .        .         .314 

Sweet  in  her  green  dell  the  flower  of  beauty  slumbers      .         .  640 

Sweet  rois  of  vertew  and  of  gentilness     .                                    .  18 

Sweet  Spring,  thou  turn'st  with  all  thy  goodly  train         .         .  827 

Sweet  western  wind,  whose  luck  it  is 949 

Sweetest  Saviour,  if  my  soul 284 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave 612 


Take,  O  take  those  lips  away 138 

Tary  no  longer ;  toward  thyn  heritage 14 

Tell  me  not  of  a  face  that 's  fair 354 

Tell  me  not,  Sweet,  I  am  unkind 343 

Tell  me  not  what  too  well  I  know 570 

Tell  me  where  is  Fancy  bred 132 

Th' expense  of  Spirit  in  a  waste  of  shame        ....  163 

Thank  Heaven !  the  crisis       .......  696 

That  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me  behold    ....  152 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined     .....  304 

That  zephyr  every  year   ........  226 

The  beauty  and  the  life 229 

The  blessed  Damozel  lean'd  out 771 

The  boat  is  chafing  at  our  long  delay 850 

The  chough  and  crow  to  roost  are  gone 510 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day         ....  453 

The  day  begins  to  droop 839 

The  days  are  sad,  it  is  the  Holy  tide 688 

The  fierce  exulting  worlds,  the  motes  in  rays  ....  777 

The  forward  youth  that  would  appear 355 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 288 

The  gray  sea  and  the  long  black  land 724 

The  Indian  weed  withered  quite      ......  390 

The  irresponsive  silence  of  the  land          .....  788 

The  isles  of  Greece  I  the  isles  of  Greece !        .        .        .        .  601 

The  king  sits  in  Dunfermline  town ......  368 

The  Lady  Mary  Villiers  lies 294 

.078 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

The  lark  now  leaves  his  wat'ry  nest 301 

The  last  and  greatest  Herald  of  Heaven's  King       .         .         .  232 

The  leaves  are  falling ;  so  am  I        ......  575 

The  linnet  in  the  rocky  dells  .....                 •  7°5 

The  lopped  tree  in  time  may  grow  again         .         .         .         .108 

The  lovely  lass  o'  Inverness 504 

The  man  of  life  upright I75 

The  merchant,  to  secure  his  treasure        .....  424 

The  moth's  kiss,  first ! 723 

The  murmur  of  the  mourning  ghost 765 

The  Nightingale,  as  soon  as  April  bringeth     ....  91 

The  rain  set  early  in  to-night 720 

The  red  rose  whispers  of  passion 831 

The  reivers  they  stole  Fair  Annie 372 

The  ring,  so  worn  as  you  behold 482 

The  Rose  was  sick  and  smiling  died 255 

The  seas  are  quiet  when  the  winds  give  o'er    ....  306 

The  soote  season,  that  bud  and  bloom  forth  brings  ...  39 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high      ......  433 

The  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls 704 

The  Star  that  bids  the  Shepherd  fold 313 

The  sun  descending  in  the  west 491 

The  sun  rises  bright  in  France         ......  589 

The  thirsty  earth  soaks  up  the  rain 349 

The  twentieth  year  is  wellnigh  past 47 1 

The  wine  of  Love  is  music 799 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us  ;  late  and  soon        .         .         .  535 

The  world's  great  age  begins  anew 607 

The  year 's  at  the  spring 7lS 

The  young  May  moon  is  beaming,  love  .....  5^2 

Thee  too,  modest  tressed  maid 5°8 

Then  hate  me  when  thou  wilt ;  if  ever,  now    .         .         .         .  154 

There  ance  was  a  may,  and  she  lo'ed  na  men  ....  43° 

There  are  two  births ;  the  one  when  light         ....  330 

There  be  none  of  Beauty's  daughters 593 

There  is  a  garden  in  her  face l68 

There  is  a  Lady  sweet  and  kind 7° 

There  is  a  mountain  and  a  wood  between  us    .         .         .         -  574 

There  is  a  silence  where  hath  been  no  sound    .         ,                  .  648 

There  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer  falls        ....  7oa 

There  lived  a  wife  at  Usher's  well 378 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream         .         .  536 

There  were  three  ravens  sat  on  a  tree 379 

There  were  twa  sisters  sat  in  a  bour 37° 

1079 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

No. 

There's  a  glade  in  Aghadoe,  Aghadoe,  Aghadoe  .  .  .  815 
There 's  a  whisper  down  the  field  where  the  year  has  shot  her 

yield 866 

There  's  a  woman  like  a  dew-drop,  she 's  so  purer  than  the  purest  722 

There 's  not  a  nook  within  this  silent  Pass  ....  540 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light !  365 

They  are  waiting  on  the  shore 804 

They  flee  from  me  that  sometime  did  me  seek  .  .  -37 

They  seem'd,  to  those  who  saw  them  meet  .  .  .  .710 

They  that  have  power  to  hurt  and  will  do  none  .  .  .  155 

They  told  me,  Heraclitus,  they  told  me  you  were  dead  .  .  759 

They  all  were  looking  for  a  king 770 

This  ae  nighte,  this  ae  nighte 381 

This  hinder  yeir  I  hard  be  tald 17 

This  is  a  spray  the  Bird  clung  to 728 

This  little  vault,  this  narrow  room 295 

This  winter's  weather  it  waxeth  cold 39 

Thou  art  to  all  lost  love  the  best 267 

Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness 625 

Thou  youngest  virgin-daughter  of  the  skies  ....  508 

Though  beauty  be  the  mark  of  praise 189 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower 518 

Through  grief  and  through  danger  thy  smile  hath  cheer'd  my 

way 583 

Through  the  black,  rushing  smoke-bursts  ....  748 

Throw  away  Thy  rod 283 

Thus  the  Mayne  glideth 717 

Thus  when  the  lilent  grave  becomes 447 

Thy  bosom  is  endeared  with  all  hearts 148 

Thy  restless  feet  now  cannot  go 341 

Thy  soul  within  such  silent  pomp  did  keep  ....  420 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright  .  489 


Time  is  the  feather'd  thing 
'Tis  a  dull  sight 
To  all  you  ladies  now  at  land 
To  fair  Fidele's  grassy  tomb 


296 
697 
408 
460 


To  live  within  a  cave — it  is  most  good 792 

To  me,  fair  friend,  you  never  can  be  old 159 

To  mute  and  to  material  things 548 

To  my  true  king  I  offer'd  free  from  stain          ....  657 

To  the  Ocean  now  I  fly 316 

To  those  whom  death  again  did  wed       .....  342 

To-day,  all  day,  I  rode  upon  the  down 820 

To-night  retired,  the  queen  of  heaven 463 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

No. 

Too  late  for  love,  too  late  for  joy 779 

Too  solemn  for  day,  too  sweet  for  night 639 

Tossing  his  mane  of  snows  in  wildest  eddies  and  tangles  .         .812 

True  Thomas  ky  on  Huntlie  bank 367 

Trust  thou  thy  Love :  if  she  be  proud,  is  she  not  sweet  ?  .         .     744 
'Twas  on  a  lofty  vase's  side     .......     456 

'Twas  the  dream  of  a  God       .......     881 

Twenty  years  hence  my  eyes  may  grow  .....     560 


Under  the  greenwood  tree 135 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky 848 

Under  yonder  beech-tree  single  on  the  green-sward  .         .         .  772 

Underneath  this  myrtle  shade 35° 

Underneath  this  sable  herse 246 

Unlike  are  we,  unlike,  O  princely  Heart !  683 

Up  the  airy  mountain 1&9 

Upon  my  lap  my  sovereign  sits 165 

Urns  and  odours  bring  away  ! *42 


Venus,  take  my  votive  glass 426 

Verse,  a  breeze  'mid  blossoms  straying 552 

Vital  spark  of  heav'nly  flame  ! 442 

Waes-hael  for  knight  and  dame ! 674 

We  are  the  music-makers 828 

We  saw  Thee  in  Thy  balmy  nest 340 

We  see  them  not— we  cannot  hear 675 

We,  that  did  nothing  study  but  the  way 279 

We  watch'd  her  breathing  thro'  the  night        .         .         .         -653 

We've  trod  the  maze  of  error  rcund 481 

Weave  the  warp,  and  weave  the  woof 454 

Weep  no  more,  nor  sigh,  nor  groan 2I7 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee    .        .         .        .105 

Weep  with  me,  all  you  that  read X93 

Weep  you  no  more,  sad  fountains b5 

Welcome,  maids  of  honour ! 25: 

Welcome,  welcome  !  do  I  sing 24° 

Well  then  !  I  now  do  plainly  see 3o3 

Were  I  as  base  as  is  the  lowly  plain I15 

Wharefore  sou'd  ye  talk  o'  love       .                 •         •         •         •  OI9 
What  beck'ning  ghost,  along  the  moonlight  shade  .        .        .44* 

1081 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

No. 

What  bird  so  sings,  yet  so  does  wail  I 86 

What  conscience,  say,  is  it  in  thee 265 

What  have  I  done  for  you 844 

What  is  your  substance,  whereof  are  you  made        .         .         .  149 

What  needs  complaints a6g 

What  nymph  should  I  admire  or  trust 422 

What  should  I  say  ? 36 

What  sweet  relief  the  showers  to  thirsty  plants  we  see     .         .  42 

What  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan    .....  687 

When  by  Zeus  relenting  the  mandate  was  revoked  .         .         .  773 

When,  Ccelia,  must  my  old  day  set         .....  396 

When  daisies  pied  and  violets  blue.         .....  125 

When,  dearest,  I  but  think  of  thee 328 

When  Death  to  either  shall  come 840 

When  Delia  on  the  plain  appears   ......  449 

When  God  at  first  made  Man 285 

When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest 781 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 318 

When  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed       .         .         .  527 

When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be                 .         .         .  635 

When  I  survey  the  bright 298 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall 126 

When,  in  disgrace  with  Fortune  and  men's  eyes       .         .         .  146 

When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 160 

When  Jessie  comes  with  her  soft  breast 791 

When  Letty  had  scarce  pass'd  her  third  glad  year  .         .         .  693 

When  like  the  early  rose 663 

When  Love  arose  in  heart  and  deed 755 

When  Love  with  nnconfined  wings 348 

When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly         .....  467 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die  ......  578 

When  my  love  was  away        .......  836 

When  our  two  souls  stand  up  erect  and  strong          .         .         .  686 

When  the  breath  of  twilight  blows  to  flame  the  misty  skies     .  872 

When  the  fierce  North-wind  with  his  airy  forces      .         .         .  434 

When  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on  winter's  traces   .         .         .  808 

When  the  lamp  is  shatter'd 614 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fanld,  and  the  kye  at  hame    .         .  477 

When  the  world  is  burning 745 

When  thou  must  home  to  shades  of  underground    .         .         .172 

When  thou,  poor  Excommunicate 291 

When  thy  beauty  appears 436 

When  to  the  Sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought ....  147 

When  we  two  parted      .         .        .        .         „        .        .        .  597 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

No. 

When  we  were  idlers  with  the  loitering  rills  ....  646 
When  you  and  I  have  play'd  the  little  hour  .  .861 

When  you  are  old  and  gray  and  full  of  sleep  ....  863 
Whenas  in  silks  my  Julia  goes  ......  259 

Where,  like  a  pillow  on  a  bed 198 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I 130 

Where  the  pools  are  bright  and  deep 513 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride    .  360 

Whether  on  Ida's  shady  brow 483 

While  that  the  sun  with  his  beams  hot 55 

Whither.  O  splendid  ship,  thy  white  sails  crowding  .     835 

Who  hath  his  fancy  pleased .89 

Who  is  it  that,  this  dark  night        ......       90 

Who  is  Silvia?    What  is  she! .123 

Whoe'er  she  be      .......  .     336 

Whoever  comes  to  shroud  me,  do  not  harm    ....     200 

Why  art  thou  silent !    Is  thy  love  a  plant        .         .  ,541 

Why  does  your  brand  sac  drop  wi'  blude  .  .  .  -373 
Why  dost  thou  shade  thy  lovely  face  ?  O  why  .  .  .416 

Why,  having  won  her,  do  I  woo  ? 760 

Why  I  tie  about  thy  wrist      .         .  ....     260 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover  ? 327 

Why,  why  repine,  my  pensive  friend 563 

Wilt  Thou  forgive  that  sin  where  I  begun  ....  201 
With  all  my  will,  but  much  against  my  heart  .  .  .  764 
With  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots  ...  .  699 

With  deep  affection 677 

With  how  sad  steps,  O  moon,  thou  climb'st  the  skies  !     .  93 

With  leaden  foot  Time  creeps  along        .....     452 

With  lifted  feet,  hands  still 856 

W7ith  margerain  gentle    ........       3° 

Worschippe  ye  that  loveris  bene  this  May        .         .         .         .15 

Wonldst  thou  hear  what  Man  can  say i92 

Wrong  not,  sweet  empress  of  my  heart    ....  76 

Wynter  wakeneth  al  my  care 5 


Years,  many  parti-colour'd  years 573 

Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 501 

Ye  blushing  virgins  happy  are 297 

Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonnie  Boon 49° 

Ye  have  been  fresh  and  green 270 

'  Ye  have  robb'd,'  said  he, '  ye  have  slaughter'd  and  made  an  end  860 
Ye  Highlands  and  ye  Lawlands      ....                .386 

1083 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

No. 

Ye  learned  sisters,  which  have  oftentimes         .         ...  82 

Ye  little  birds  that  sit  and  sing        .                           .         .         .  J 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 5°<> 

Yes  :  in  the  sea  of  life  enisled 749 

Yet  if  His  Majesty,  our  sovereign  lord     .  .         • 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  Laurels,  and  once  more  .         .         •         •  3J7 

You  are  a  tulip  seen  to-day     .                                                      •  *57 

Yon  brave  heroic  minds.         .          .         .                  •         •         •  I2° 

You  meaner  beauties  of  the  night '7° 

You  must  be  sad ;  for  though  it  is  to  Heaven                             •  < 

You  promise  heavens  free  from  strife 75° 

You  spotted  snakes  with  double  tongue 12° 

You'll  love  me  yet!— and  I  can  t airy 7*9 

Your  beauty,  ripe  and  calm  and  fresh 3oa 

Your  eyen  two  wol  slee  me  sodenly 12 


1084 


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